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Bulkeley  Library 


THE   PLACE    OF    MY   DESIRE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE 

PLACE  OF  MY  DESIRE 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

EDITH    COLBY    BANFIELD 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND    COMPANY 

1904 


Copyright,  1904, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published  October,  1904 


THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS 
CAMBRIDGE,      U.S.A. 


PREFACE. 


EDITH  COLBY  BANFIELD  was  born 
February  14,  1870,  in  Washington,  D.C. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Everett  C.  Banfield 
and  Anne  S.  Fiske,  the  only  sister  of  Helen 
Jackson  ("H.H.").  She  was  graduated  from 
Vassar  College  in  1892.  A  large  part  of  her 
life  was  spent  at  the  old  home  in  Wolfeboro, 
on  the  shore  of  Lake  Winnepesaukee,  but 
during  the  three  years  before  her  death  her 
home  was  in  Colorado  Springs,  where  she  died 
suddenly,  March  30,  1903. 

The  poems  in  this  little  book  have  been 
chosen  from  among  the  papers  left  at  her 
death.  A  few  have  already  been  published: 
"  Glamour  "  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  "  Home 
sickness  "  and  "  Night  on  the  Desert "  in  the 
Century,  others  in  the  Outlook,  the  Dial,  and 
elsewhere,  —  but  most  of  them  were  being 
held  by  her  to  be  moulded  into  more  perfect 
form.  Any  alteration  by  another  hand  than 
hers  was  not  to  be  considered,  and  such  poems 


viii  Preface. 

and  parts  of  poems  as  are  here  brought  to 
gether  stand,  word  for  word,  as  she  left  them. 
It  is  not,  therefore,  as  finished  or  even  as 
mature  work  that  they  should  be  judged. 
Many  of  them  were  written  during  her  col 
lege  days, —  naive,  light,  incomplete  perhaps, 
though  never  crude  and  never  insincere,— 
while  at  their  best  they  are  but  the  tentative 
and  fragmentary  expression  of  an  artist  who 
was  still  striving  for  mastery  of  her  chosen 
instrument.  In  the  attainment  of  such  mas 
tery  her  hand  was  stayed,  but  the  little  it  had 
wrought  comes  to  us,  in  its  exquisite  grace, 
in  its  strong  yet  gentle  beauty,  in  the  sim 
plicity  of  its  complete  sincerity,  as  the  ex 
pression  of  a  rare  and  lovely  spirit. 

E.  E.  M. 
E.  W.  M. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

'  ALL   OUT   ALONG    THE    COUNTRY-SIDE  " XV 


©n 

"  WHEN  I  CONSIDER  HOW  ALL  LANGUAGE  LIES  "     .  3 

"  FOR  THIS  DO  ME  NO  HONOR,  DEAR  MY  FRIEND  "    .  4 

"  TO  HIM  WHO  READS  IT,  POETRY  DOTH  SEEM  "...  5 

IN  POETRY'S  HIGH  TOWER 6 

SONGS 7 

AT  TWILIGHT.     I        8 

AT  TWILIGHT.    II 9 

THE  MUSE 10 

"ALONG  THE  EDGES  OF  THE  NIGHT" 11 

"I  WROTE  IN  TEARS,  IN  SCALDING  TEARS  "   ....  12 


,  anti  ©tfjer  Sonnttg. 

POETS  OF  ENGLAND.     I 15 

POETS  OF  ENGLAND.    II 16 

CHAUCER 17 

CHAUCER  AND  KEATS 18 

SHAKESPEARE 19 

WORDSWORTH 20 

DE    QUINCEY   AND   OUR   LADIES   OF    SORROW      ...  21 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD          22 


x  Contents. 

PAGB 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 23 

THE  SIGN       24 

GLAMOUR 25 

"HOW  BEAUTIFUL  LIES  THE  DIM-DISTANCED  PAST  "  26 

"  SPIRIT  OF  INCOMMUNICABLE  THINGS  " 27 

To   A    PlNE-TREB 28 

MOON-CLOUDS 29 

SUNSET 30 

A  TWILIGHT  SONNET 31 

"  As  LITTLE    AIRS   COME    BLOWING    IN   ALL    DAY  "    .      .  32 

A  GARDEN  PRAYER 33 

"  WITHIN  A  SHELTERED  GARDEN  so  TO  SIT  "...  34 

THE  FIELDS  AGAINST  THE  SKY 35 

WORSHIP 36 

"THERE  is  A  PLACE  BESIDE  A  DEWY  WOOD"      .     .  37 

LAND  AND  SEA 38 

THE  SEA 39 

To  A  PORTRAIT  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 40 

"THEY  ALSO  SERVE  WHO  ONLY  STAND  AND  WAIT"  41 

PENIEL 42 

THE  WORTH  OF  SPEECH 43 

"  WlIO  HAVE  NOT  BEEN  IN  BONDAGE  DO  NOT  KNOW  "  44 

To  ONE  OF  FULL  YEARS  WHO  DIED  IN  HER  SLEEP  45 

To  ONE  WHOSE  FATHER  DIED  BEFORE  HKB  BIRTH  46 

INFANCY.     I 47 

INFANCY.     II 48 

ON  THE  BUST  OF  A  CHILD.     I 49 

ON  THE  BUST  OF  A  CHILD.     II 50 

"I  HOLD    MY    DARLING    CLOSE    AGAINST    MY    HEART".  51 

"MY  SISTER'S  CHILD,  AND  ALMOST  CHILD  OF  MINE"  52 

"LET    ME    NOT    MOURN  THE  SWEET    FORGOTTEN  KISS  "  53 

"  HER   FACE    I   HOLD   A   VISION   IN   MY   HEART  "      .      .  54 
"IF     THOUGHT     SOME     SWIFTER     TRAVEL    COULD    BDT 

FIND  " 55 

"  As  ONE    DOTH   VAINLY    STRUGGLE    TO    RECALL"    .  56 


Contents.  xi 

PAGE 
"  BE  THOU  MY  FRIEND,  DEAR  FRIEND,  FOR  FRIEND 

THOU  ART" 57 

SOLITUDE.     I 58 

SOLITUDE.    II 59 

RECOGNITION       60 


Poems  anb  Jragmnttg. 

A  DREAM 63 

Mr  LADY'S  EYES 65 

INDOLENCE 66 

INDIAN  NAMES 68 

IN  AUTUMN 69 

BiTTER-SwEET 70 

THE  PINES 72 

WINTER  WOODS 73 

WINTER  TWILIGHT 74 

ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 75 

THE  BREAKING  STORM 76 

AFTER  THE  SUMMER  RAIN 77 

DAWN 78 

MORNING  SONG 79 

"IF  I  COULD  BUT  REBUILD  IN  RHYME*'      ....  80 

MARIPOSA  LILIES 81 

WIND  IN  THE  TREES 82 

THE  BELL-BUOY 83 

THE  SILENT  VISITORS 84 

QUEST 85 

CALL       86 

THE  CLUE 87 

THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW 88 

"  LlFE  WAS  REAL  IN  CHILDHOOD  DAYS  "      .     .     .    .  89 

"  O  SPENDTHRIFT  YEARS,  WHEN  WITHOUT  RUTH  "     .  90 

"  0  WEARY  ARE  THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT  "  .     .  91 


xii  Contents. 

PAGE 

"  BRUISED  IN  SPIRIT,  SORE  AT  HEART  " 92 

"  THE  PRICE  OF  WISDOM  IS  THE  THING  MOST  DEAR 

IN  LIFE" 93 

"  I  MISSED  THE  CHERISHED  THING  I  SOUGHT "     .    .  94 

To  H.  B.  J.  95 


ilti  Poems  ant)  Songs. 

LITTLE-FOLK  LAND 99 

To  H.  J 101 

To  E.  K 102 

A  PLEA 103 

To  ELIZABETH 104 

"LlKE    A    PIECE    OF    THISTLE-DOWN" 106 

"  MY    FLOWERS  BLOOM  MOKE  SWEET  FOR  ME  TO-DAY  "  107 

Lois 108 

To  E.  B.  D 109 

"LULLABY-LAND" 112 

LULLABY 113 

"  THE  END  OF  THE  DAY."     (To  the  painting  by  Ser 
geant  Kendall) 114 

"THERE   ARE    GARDENS,   GARDENS,   OVER   ALL   THE 

LAND" 116 

THE  LITTLE  NEW  MOON 117 

MOON  SONG 118 

"Do  YOU  KNOW" 119 

"IF  I  WERE  A  LITTLE  PINK  SHELL  BY  THE  SEA"  .  120 

PEE-WEE 121 

MY  NEIGHBOR'S  LINDEN 122 

PUSSY-WILLOWS 123 

PARTRIDGE-VINE 124 

JASMINE 125 

WILD  ROSE 126 

CLOVEK  127 


Contents.  xiii 

Place  0f  fHs  Besire"  antJ  ©tfjer 


PAGE 

THE  PLACE  or  MY  DESIRE 131 

SUNSET  AT  WINNEPESAUKEE.  I 134 

SUNSET  AT  WINNEPESAUKEE.  II 135 

SUNSET  AT  WINNEPESAUKEE.  Ill 136 

"  THE  BRAVE  WEST  WINDS  COME  SWEEPING  DOWN 

THE  BROADS" -.  .  .  137 

To  WINNEPESAUKEE 138 

INDIAN  SUMMER 139 

SURPRISAL 140 

"IF  MY  STRENGTH  GO  FROM  ME " 141 

"  O  VIOLETS  AND  SUNSHINE  AND  VAGUE  THRILLS  "  .  143 

IN  THE  ROCKIES 144 

NIGHT  ON  THE  DESERT 145 

HOMESICKNESS 146 

SAILOR  BLOOD 148 

"IN  A  FAR  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE" 150 

"I  SEE  THESE  MOUNTAINS  NOW  FOREVER  WITH 

CHANGED  EYES "  151 

MOTHER  EARTH 152 

BODY  AND  SPIRIT 153 


/ILL  out  along  the  country-side 

The  little  untaught  wild  flowers  grow, 
Where  men  may  pick  them  as  they  go, 
To  carry,  maybe,  for  a  day, 
And  then  fling  carelessly  away. 

If  so  my  little  verses  here 

Shall  bring  some  touch  of  grace  or  cheer 

To  any  traveller  by  the  way, 

A  nd  brighten  but  a  single  day, 

My  heart  is  glad  and  satisfied. 


WHEN  I  consider  how  all  language  lies 
Before  me  like  a  vast,  exhaustless  sea, 
On  which  I  choose  to  venture,  daring-wise 
In  this  so  fragile  bark  of  Poesy ; 
When  I  consider  what  new  worlds  of  thought 
Beyond  the  dim-defined  horizon  lie, 
Whereto  some  navigator  may  be  brought  — 
And  if  some  other  seeker,  why  not  I  ?  — 
Then  am  I  thrilled,  like  mariners  of  old 
Who  trimmed  their  sails  for  undiscovered  shore, 
And  doubted  if  they  were  but  over-bold, 
Nor  knew  the  deep  that  they  must  voyage  o'er, 
Yet  fearless  sought  those  unseen  countries  far, 
O'er  chartless  seas,  beneath  the  lone  north  star. 


On  Poesy. 


FOR  this  do  me  no  honor,  dear  my  friend, 
That  I  a  setting  of  some  sort  have  wrought 
To   hold  the  scattered  pearls  of   thine  own 

thought, 

And  their  fair  beauties  to  unite  and  blend. 
But  let  me  honor  thee,  so  free  to  wend 
Along  the  bolder  ways,  that  thou  hast  brought 
My  life  a  richness  it  in  vain  had  sought 
Within  the  circle  where  my  days  I  spend. 
Thy  thoughts  are  free  wild  birds  thou  canst  not 

catch 

To  put  within  the  sonnet's  gilded  bars, 
But  of  their  untamed  singing  mine  do  snatch 
A  melody  of  wind  and  woods  and  stars  : 
As  caged  mocking-birds  will  steal  the'  song 
Of  sunlit  orioles  that  flash  along. 


On  Poesy. 


TO  him  who  reads  it,  poetry  doth  seem 
Like  any  quiet,  leafy-bordered  stream, 
Whereby  't  is  pleasant  of  an  afternoon 
To  sit  and  see  the  silver  ripples  run, 
And  listen  for  the  calling  of  the  loon, 
And  watch  the  downward  journey  of  the  sun ; 
To  hear  the  little  border  whisperings 
And  meditate  on  many  gentle  things ; 
And  when  the  heart  of  beauty  hath  its  fill 
To  rise  and  follow  on  one's  homeward  way 
In  peace,  while  that  sweet  river's  presence  still 
Doth  cast  a  glamour  o'er  the  closing  day. 
So  is  not  poetry  to  him  who  writes. 
Ah  me,  it  is  a  fever  in  the  blood 
That  keeps  him  tossing  many  weary  nights, 
While  round  about  him  doth  the  darkness  brood ; 
It  is  a  wild  delirium  of  mind 
For  which  no  healing  can  physician  find ; 
No  dulling  drug  his  madness  can  abate. 
For  him  are  cooling  waters  cool  in  vain, 
And  loving  hands  cannot  alleviate, 
By  soothing  touch,  the  throbbing  of  his  brain  ! 


On  Poesy. 


IN  POETRY'S  HIGH  TOWER. 

UP  in  this  belfry  tower  of  poetry 
I  flee  disquiet  and  the  vexing  things 
Left  far  and  dim  below.     'Mid  fluttering  wings 
I  overlook  the  city  under  me, 
I  see  the  morning  break  upon  the  sea, 
And  watch  the  westward  spires  where  evening 

clings : 

Yea,  this  old  bell,  obedient  that  rings, 
I  even  waken,  halt  and  tremblingly. 
Could  I  but  ring  it  as  blind  Milton  rung, 
I  would  not  need  to  see  the  morning  light ; 
What   sounds   would   issue   from   its    mighty 

tongue, 
More  strong  than  death,  more  comforting  than 

sight ! 

Ah,  let  no  weakling  think  he  can  regain 
One  single  peal  of  that  triumphant  strain ! 


Songs. 


SONGS. 

SOME  songs  there  are  that  whisper  like  the 
wind 

Of  far-off  countries  and  of  gentle  climes ; 
And  some  that  murmur  like  the  distant  sea 
Of  life  and  death  and  wide  eternity ; 
And  some  there  are  that  ring  like  silver  chimes 
Across  the  barren  moors ;  and  some  whose  knell 
Is  like  the  tolling  of  a  funeral  bell ; 
And  some  whose  melodies  go  blowing  by 
Like  summer  sounds  beneath  a  summer  sky. 
O  songs  of  sweetness,  were  I  deaf  and  blind, 
This  dear  old  world  were  yet  unlost  to  me 
While   still  your  measures  stirred  within  my 
mind ! 


On  Poesy. 


AT  TWILIGHT. 

I. 

THERE  comes  a  time  of  day  when  I  would 
fain 

Sit  down  to  some  beloved  instrument, 
And  with  impassioned  hands  and  eyes  down- 
bent, 

Disburden  me  of  my  remembered  pain ; 
Pour  out  my  heart's  dear  joy  in  some  wild  strain, 
Or  voice  those  mingled  moods  wherein  are  blent 
A  cherished  sadness  and  divine  content, 
With  all  the  longings  twilight  hath  in  train. 
Alas,  that  I  am  not  sweet  music's  child, 
That  my  untutored  fingers  cannot  free 
The  melodies  that  make  my  heart  so  wild  ! 
Yet  shall  they  not  remain  unvoiced  things ; 
The  sonnet  shall  be  little  harp  to  me, 
And  I  '11  pluck  music  from  its  golden  strings. 


At  Twilight. 


II. 

A  LITTLE  lyre  of  fragile-fashioned  grace, 
Whereou  I  '11  weave  some  air  in  minor 

key, 

And  by  the  phrasing  of  that  melody 
Ease  my  heart's  fulness  for  a  little  space  ; 
Whereon  I  '11  thread  my  song,  and  interlace 
The  notes  that  are  persuasive  unto  me, 
Returning  to  them  as  delayingly 
As  e'er  the  daylight  doth  her  steps  retrace. 
So  then  my  soul  in  silence  shall  not  sit 
At  that  sweet  hour  when  music  comes  to  woo, 
And  shadow-fancies  through  the  gloaming  flit : 
Of  twilight  solace  I  shall  have  my  share, 
And  through  the  dreamy  darkness  will  I  too 
Pour  out  my  plaint  upon  the  burdened  air. 


10  On  Poesy. 


THE  MUSE. 

HER  hand  is  heavy  on  me  :  I  must  write 
Her  bidding  ere  she  let  me  go. 
She  standeth  stern :  with  unrelenting  sight 
She  sees  the  words  come  faltering  and  slow 
And  strikes  aside  my  hand  and  takes  the  pen, 
And  writes  a  swift  and  perfect  line 
Upon  my  faulty  page  —  and  then, 
"  Match  now  thy  writing  unto  mine  !  " 
Her  hand  is  heavy  on  me  and  I  write, 
Through  days  of  weariness  and  nights  of  pain 
I  do  her  bidding  as  her  bond  slave  might, 
Untouched  by  future  hope  or  dream  of  gain. 


On  Poesy.  11 


ALONG  the  edges  of  the  night 
My  little  rhymes  do  peep  and  steal, 
And  oftentimes  in  dreams  I  feel 
Their  tiny  footsteps  falling  light, 
Or  hear  their  roguish  whispers  burn 
Beside  my  pillow  as  I  turn ; 
And  vainly  do  I  bid  them  cease 
And  let  me  slumber  on  in  peace. 
The  sprites  but  mock  me  as  they  prance 
And  wind  about  in  teasing  dance. 
But  when  I  wake,  the  broad  daylight 
Doth  startle  them  to  sudden  flight, 
And  then  I  coax  and  try  to  keep 
Those  small  disturbers  of  my  sleep ! 


12  On  Poesy. 


1  WROTE  in  tears,  in  scalding  tears, 
A  blithesome  little  roundelay, 
And  sent  it  in  its  lightsome  way. 
Ah  me,  I  wonder  if  it  cheers, 
Or  whether  in  its  measure  gay 
Some  finer  ears 
Detect  the  beat  of  falling  tears  ! 


anfc 


I. 

T  HAVE  not  been  in  England.     Nay,  and  yet 
•*•     My  spirit  there  hath  ever  been  at  home, 
And  I  since  childish  days  have  seemed  to  roam 
Through  beechen  groves,  and  watched  the  sun 
light  fret 

The  English  greensward ;  hedges  dewy-wet 
Have   blushed  in    blossomed    by-ways   of  my 

dream, 

And  by  the  grassy  margin  of  some  stream 
Have  plucked  me  cowslips  for  a  coronet. 
Poets  of  England,  ye  it  is  have  made 
That  England  is  to  every  one  his  own ; 
Ye  have  acquainted  us  with  wood  and  glade 
And  golden  daffodils  by  lake-winds  blown, 
At  your  sweet  summons  have  we  sought  the 

shade 
To  learn  how  sings  the  nightingale  alone. 


16     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


IL 

I  HAVE  not  been  in  England.     Nay,  have  not, 
Yet  have  I  seen  her  palaces  and  towers, 
And  I  have  seen  the  sunlight  break  in  showers 
Upon  her  minster  spires.     From  some  high  spot 
I,  even  as  the  Lady  of  Shalott, 
Have  counted  many  knights  and  pages  gay, 
And  watched  the  river  winding  on  its  way 
To  the  dim  pinnacles  of  Camelot. 
Poets  of  England,  ye  the  charmed  glass 
(Save  that  the  charm  hath  not  a  touch  of  ill) 
Wherein  I  see  my  lords  and  ladies  pass, 
And  those  sweet  waters  flowing  at  their  will. 
Ah,  what  though  they  but  shadows  be,  alas, 
If  as  I  spin  I  can  but  see  them  still  ? 


Chaucer.  17 


CHAUCER. 

THY  words   are  like  a  sweet,  refreshing 
shower 

To  one  who  travels  on  a  dusty  way : 
Thou  breathest  of  the  hawthorn  boughs  of  May, 
And  leadest  one  as  to  a  pleasant  bower 
Where,  hidden  in  the  tangled  leaf  and  flower, 
Some  little  bird  pours  forth  his  roundelay ; 
Then  out  again  to  meet  the  golden  day 
In  open  meadows  with  their  starry  dower. 
Ah,  Chaucer !  thou  art  like  a  little  child 
Who  prattles  all  the  day  for  very  glee, 
And  forces  old  and  grave  to  be  beguiled 
With  woven  tales  and  winsome  imagery ; 
Nor  more  than  any  child  dost  thou  surmise 
How  in  simplicity  thy  heart  is  wise  ! 


18     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


CHAUCER  AND  KEATS. 

YE  are  my  morning  poets,  like  the  dawn 
In  loveliness  and  bright  simplicity  ; 
So  full  of  a  sweet  wonderment  to  me 
That  from  old  Earth  such  newness  can  be  drawn. 
The  dewy  daisies  waking  on  the  lawn, 
The  golden  buttercups  abroad  the  lea 
Seem  not  more  fresh,  more  virginal  to  be 
Than  your  clear  verses,  of  their  beauty  born. 
I  tiptoe  stand  upon  a  little  hill, 

0  Keats,  with  you,  and  feel  the  world  a-thrill ; 

1  read  my  Chaucer  through  your  youthful  eyes 
For  sake  of  one  small  verse  that  made  me  wise ; 
And  morning  holds  you  both  forever  bright 
With  dews  and  freshness  and  the  early  light. 


Shakespeare.  1 9 


SHAKESPEARE. 

GLAD   have   I  drunk  of  Chaucer's  living 
spring, 

And  I  have  followed  Spenser's  silver  stream 
Through  new-awakened  meadows ;  traced  the 

gleam 

Of  many  fertile  rivers  issuing  : 
In  sterner  regions  I  have  heard  the  roll 
Of  Milton's  torrent  harmonies,  that  sweep 
Reverberating  chords  through  chasms  deep  ; 
And  in  pure  waters  have  I  seen  the  soul 
Of  gentle  Keats.     But  Shakespeare  !     Ah,  the 

sea, 

With  its  great  pulses  throbbing  mightily, 
Bears  all  the  commerce  of  our  human-kind, 
And  touches  every  shore  in  friendliness. 
A  trackless  thoroughfare,  and  measureless 
As  the  eternal  ocean,  is  that  mind  ! 


20     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


WORDSWORTH. 

TT7HEN  quiet  lights  steal  down  the  after 
noon 

And  hills  stretch  out,  and  purple  shadows  lie 
Along  their  lengthening  slopes ;  then,  pensive,  I 
Dream  of  the  English  Lakes  and  their  rich  boon. 
I  have  not  seen  their  sunsets  and  their  noon, 
But  I  behold  with  an  awakened  eye 
The  loveliness  beneath  my  native  sky, 
My  own  hill-girdled  lake,  whose  waters  croon 
As  when  I  was  a  child.     Here  it  is  sweet 
To  sit  in  humbleness  at  Wordsworth's  feet 
And  with  his  eyes  spell  out  the  lettered  hills, 
While  daylight  fades,  and  lovely  evening  fills. 
As  peaceful  as  the  declining  end  of  day 
Thy  poems,  Wordsworth,  in  my  memory  stay. 


De  Quincey  and  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow.     21 


DE  QUINCEY  AND  OUR    LADIES   OF 
SORROW. 

DREAMER  of  wild,  unfathomable  dreams, 
Levana  surely  did  deliver  thee 
To  the  strange  dealings  of  those  Sisters  Three 
Whom  thou  wast  first  to  name.    With  starry 

gleams 

Came  She  of  Tears  to  fill  thine  early  days, 
Then  She  of  Sighs  next  had  thee  for  her  own, 
And  lastly  She  of  Darkness  —  ah,  make  moan  — 
Did  lead  thee  through  the  unutterable  ways. 
Assuredly  did  these  lay  bare  to  thee 
The  hidden  things  that  man  ought  not  to  see, 
And  unto  thy  plagued  spirit  did  unfold 
Secrets  unnameable  and  truths  of  old  ; 
And  for  a  sign,  did  work  thee  gift  of  speech 
That  to  all  heights  could  scale,  to  all  depths 
reach. 


22     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

AJSTERE  and  pure,  and  steadfast  as  a  star 
Thy  poet  soul  doth  shine  in  beauty  high, 
Lovely  as  lonely,  friendly  though  so  far, 
Uplifting  hearts  unto  the  solemn  sky. 
As  doth  some  star  gleam,  on  a  winter's  night, 
Draw  me  from  self  and  teach  me  to  endure. 
So  am  I  lifted  by  thy  spirit's  light, 
So  by  its  shining  am  I  made  more  pure. 
Mournful  indeed,  as  stars  and  oceans  are, 
And  measured  tides  that  'neath  the  starlight  roll, 
Thy  words  from  out  the  deep,  across  the  bar, 
Roll  measured  in,  and  break  upon  my  soul, 
Till  I  am  filled  with  the  solemnity 
Of  starlit  heavens  and  unresting  sea. 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  23 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

TUSITALA,  teller  of  brave  tales, 
As    children   clamber  to  their  father's 

knee 

To  drink  of  stories  while  the  twilight  fails, 
We  in  our  gentler  moments  turn  to  thee  ! 
A  spell  is  in  thy  words,  and  none  may  leave 
The  charmed  circle  pressing  to  thy  side 
While  thou  the  web  of  golden  tales  dost  weave, 
To  hold  us  listening  and  open-eyed. 
Dear  Tusitala  !     Ay,  and  more  than  this  : 
Thou  hast  the  gift  of  love,  that  none  may  go 
From  out  thy  story-land  but  seems  to  miss 
A  bright  and  gracious  presence,  and  to  know 
A  tiny  thing  is  all  thy  master's  art 
Beside  thy  loving,  patient,  human  heart. 


24     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


THE  SIGN. 

AjtL  things  of  beauty  bear  this  single  sign 
That  they  do  seem  forever  to  have  been, 
That  we  of  old  their  loveliness  have  known, 
Or  else  have  dreamed  within  a  dream  divine. 
The  poet  in  his  perfect  ordered  line 
Has  only  said  what  we  did  always  mean, 
The  painter  doth  but  bring  to  us  our  own, 
And  the  musician  that  for  winch  we  pine. 
So  every  little  flower  along  the  Spring 
Is  born  to  its  perfection,  nor  could  be 
But  just  that  sweet  inevitable  thing 
Our  hearts  had  visioned  ere  our  eyes  did  see 
And  touch  discover.     So  a  lovely  face 
At  first  beholding  wears  familiar  grace. 


Glamour.  25 


GLAMOUR. 

WONDER  days  when  heart  and  I  were 

young, 

And  all  the  world  was  radiant  and  new ; 
When  every  little  common  flower  that  grew 
Interpreted  to  me  an  unknown  tongue, 
Or  seemed  a  fairy  bell  that  late  had  rung 
Its  silver  peal  across  the  morning  dew ; 
When  skies  were  tapestries  of  living  blue, 
And  stars  a  mesh  of  jewels  overhung ! 
Now  is  my  happy  youth  fulfilled,  and  I 
Am  come  to  mine  inheritance  of  pain ; 
Yet  does  the  brightness  of  the  days  gone  by 
Still  cast  a  glory  over  hill  and  plain  ; 
Still  can  I  go  beneath  the  open  sky 
And  feel  the  old  world  young  and  strange  again. 


26      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


HOW  beautiful  lies  the  dim-distanced  Past, 
With  glint   of  turrets   and  of  winding 

streams, 

With  shadows  luminous  and  cloudy  gleams 
Athwart  the  purple  border  region  cast :  — 
A  storied  country,  stretching  vague  and  vast, 
A  wonderland  of  distances  and  dreams. 
So  fair,  so  far,  so  mystical,  it  seems 
To  draw  down  Heaven's  garment  and  at  last 
To  melt  in  atmosphere  !     But  lovely  too 
Is  this  dear  Present  with  its  glad,  near  view 
Of  life's  most  common  things.     We  who  find 

sweet 

The  very  dust  and  grass-blades  at  our  feet, 
Need  not  to  look  afar,  but  need  how  much 
The  comforting  of  nearness  and  of  touch ! 


Sonnet.  27 


OPIRIT  of  incommunicable  things, 

^  How  often  in  the  silences  of  night 

I  seem  to  hear  the  rustling  of  thy  wings, 

And  dream  that  thou  art  stooping  to  alight ! 

How  often  in  the  pauses  of  the  day 

I  feel  a  sudden  stirring  of  the  air, 

And  waiting,  breathless,  hold  me  in  the  way, 

If  it  so  be  that  thou  shalt  linger  there  ! 

Spirit  of  incommunicable  things, 

Abroad  forever  on  the  winds  of  night, 

Abroad  forever  over  land  and  sea, 

We  may  but  hear  the  beating  of  thy  wings, 

The  passing  of  thy  shadow  may  but  see, 

Nor  ever  wilt  thou  tarry  in  thy  flight ! 


28     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


TO  A  PINE-TREE. 

O  SOLITARY  Pine,  that  hast  forgot 
The  sweet  security  of  comradeship, 
The  bleak  powers  compass  thee,  but  swerve 

thee  not, 

Though  all  the  winds  of  heaven  be  let  slip, 
And  like  a  swift-surrounding  angry  tide 
The  elements  beset  thy  giant  form. 
Thou  grippest  with  thy  roots  the  mountain-side, 
And  spreadest  fearless  branches  to  the  storm. 
0  kingly-hearted,  thou  in  solitude 
Amid  the  buffetings  and  stress  and  strain 
Hast  wrought  a  largeness  and  a  hardihood 
Thy  brethren  of  the  forest  may  not  gain  ; 
Yea,  out  of  loneliness  they  may  not  guess 
Hast  thou  achieved  thy  larger  nobleness. 


Moon-Clouds.  29 


MOON-CLOUDS. 

O  FLEECY  moonlit  clouds  that  sweep  the 
night, 

Wind-blown  across  the  darkness  of  that  blue, 
White  is  the  moon,  but  ye  are  yet  more  white, 
More  luminous,  to  my  bewildered  view  ! 
So  wonderful,  so  near  in  your  wild  haste 
I  seem  upborne  upon  your  silken  fleece, 
And  strangely  carried  through  the  skyey  waste 
Where  moon-beams  flood,  and  great  winds  do 

not  cease. 

Ye  come  on  wings  from  the  tumultuous  west, 
And  cross  the  moon  and  melt  away  like  dreams, 
And  still  I  follow  on  your  fading  quest 
In  that  fair  dreamland  of  white  rifts  and  gleams, 
And  seem  with  you  to  melt  to  nothingness 
In  the  great  whirl  of  silent  sweeping  space  ! 


30      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


SUNSET. 

NOT  only  in  the  west  the  wonder  lies, 
But  all  the  quiet  east  is  overblown 
With  sunset-loosened  clouds  that  float  and  rise- 
Like  rosy  dreams  from  out  the  fair  unknown ; 
That  float  and  pass  as  over  fields  of  sleep, 
Or  now  with  sudden  passionateness  pour 
Like  crested  billows  from  some  boundless  deep, 
Uprolling  on  the  wide  horizon  shore. 
Ah,  brief  as  dreams  are  those  soft-tinted  clouds 
That  gather  up  the  glory  of  the  day 
In  one  swift  flush,  ere  fall  the  twilight  shrouds 
To  wrap  the  world  in  shadow-mists  of  gray : 
Too  soon  recede  those  sunset  billows  rolled 
Along  strange  shores  from  out  a  sea  of  gold. 


A  Twilight  Sonnet.  31 


A  TWILIGHT  SONNET. 

A5  dies  the  music  from  the  master's  bow, 
As  fades  the  sunset  from  the  western  sky, 
As  faint  the  winds,  until  they  also  die, 
So  my  sweet  joys  back  into  silence  go. 
As  rivers  to  the  great  calm  ocean  flow, 
So  flow  my  griefs  to  their  abiding  sea, 
And  there  are  stilled  into  tranquillity 
In  silent  depths  that  can  no  tumult  know. 
As  little  birds  at  night-time  fold  their  wings 
And  come  to  rest  upon  the  nearest  bough, 
My  thoughts  do  all,  like  little  tired  things, 
Drop  down  to  rest,  they  care  not  where  or  how. 
Then  is  my  heart  like  to  the  twilight  world 
Where  fitful  winds  are  hushed,  and  flowers  lie 
furled. 


32      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


AS  little  airs  come  blowing  in  all  day 
At  every  open  window  of  the  room, 
Refreshing  it,  and  making  sweet  its  gloom 
With  scent  of  clover-fields  and  new-mown  hay, 
So  fancies  light  come  wandering  my  way, 
And  enter  in,  and  fill  the  open  room 
Of  my  bare  mind  with  memories  of  bloom 
And  breaths  of  beauty  graciously  astray. 
And  I  within  am  grateful  for  this  thing  — 
That  thoughts  are  blown  to  me  from  this  sweet 

world 

Full  of  a  loveliness  that  is  not  mine, 
Full  of  a  freshness  somewhere  caught  a-wing 
Along  the  morning's  edge,  from  clouds  rose- 
curled, 
Or  from  the  shaken  dew-drops  as  they  shine. 


A  Garden  Prayer.  33 


A  GARDEN  PRAYER. 

TN  one  familiar  garden  let  me  grow, 
•*•  Amid  the  sweetness  of  the  things  I  love  ; 
Let  me  brush  cheeks  with  blossoms  that  I  know, 
And  reach  to  roses  beckoning  me  above. 
Of  these  accustomed  dews  still  let  me  drink, 
And  ever  feel  the  morning  on  my  face 
Athwart  these  garden  ways,  and  ever  sink 
Unto  the  slumberous  night  in  this  one  place. 
Transplant  me  not,  0  Gardener,  but  let  be 
My  intertwined  roots  in  this  same  spot 
Where  the  glad  earth  received  me.     Here  for  me 
Are  all  my  joys,  my  loves.     Transplant  me  not, 
Lest  spite  of  warmer  soil  and  sunnier  sky, 
In  my  great  loneliness  I  pine  and  die. 


34     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


T  T  71THIN  a  sheltered  garden  so  to  sit 

»  *    Amid  the  Sabbath  stillness  of  the  air, 
With  fitful  peal  of  church  bells  breaking  it 
And  making  it  more  musically  fair  ; 
To  feel  the  morning  coolness  on  my  face, 
The  freshness  of  God's  morning  in  its  dew, 
To  offer  gratitude  in  grassy  place 
Mid  beds  of  violets  new-bathed  and  blue  ; 
This  is  to  me  the  sweetness  of  the  day, 
The  crowning  loveliness  of  all  the  week  ; 
The  hour  of  peace  and  perfectness  ;  the  way 
Wherein  I  find  the  blessing  that  I  seek. 
Then  even  is  my  heart  a  holy  book, 
Wherein  for  healing  I  may  search  and  look. 


The  Fields  against  the  Sky.  35 


THE  FIELDS  AGAINST  THE  SKY. 

THESE  quiet  fields  that  rise  against  the  sky, 
From  morning  until  evening  do  not  cease 
To  give  a  sense  of  sweet  security, 
And  fill  my  spirit  with  a  gentle  peace. 
The  haystacks  outlined  on  their  easy  heights 
Possess  an  incommunicable  charm, 
Awaken  thoughts  of  coming  winter  nights, 
And  little  cottages  secure  from  harm. 
Such  friendliness  there  is  in  these  fair  slopes, 
Such  tranquil  thought  of  earth  and  human-kind, 
Yet  also  do  they  stir  in  me  strange  hopes, 
And  with  strange  longings  tantalize  my  mind 
Till  like  a  child  I  think  by  mounting  them 
To  reach  and  touch  the  very  heaven's  hem. 

PAKADISE  ROAD,  NEWPORT. 


36      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


WORSHIP. 

I  WANDERED  down  the  dim-lit  forest  aisles 
With  brooding  eyes  and  reverent,  slow  feet ; 
I  saw  the  quiet  arches  over-meet, 
More  fair  than  mediaeval  builded  piles ; 
I  traced  the  shadowy  cathedral  line, 
And  heard  the  tiny  choristers  repeat 
Their  Benedicite,  up-singing  sweet 
Above  the  surging  octaves  of  the  pines. 
Most  holy  high  Cathedral  of  the  wood 
Whose  doors  are  ever  open  night  and  day 
That  they  who  will  may  enter,  it  is  good 
In  thy  great  nave  to  linger  and  to  pray, 
Thence  from  the  silence  and  the  solitude 
To  go  ennobled  on  the  daily  way. 


Sonnet.  37 


THERE  is  a  place  beside  a  dewy  wood, 
A  grassy  hollow  bordering  the  shade, 
Where  once  I  sudden  chanced,  and  startled 

stood, 

Held  in  a  breathless  wonder,  half  afraid. 
So  fair  anemones  I  had  not  seen 
In  all  the  places  of  the  country  side, 
Such  April  snows  upon  such  bank  of  green, 
Such  myriads  of  blossoms,  starry-eyed  ! 
Oh,  sweet  surprisal  of  a  long-lost  way, 
How  oft  I  chance  upon  thee  in  my  heart, 
How  often  stand  within  that  yesterday, 
Fresh  marvelling,  and  feel  the  quick  joy  start, 
And  see  again  those  blown  anemones 
Lift  cool  and  white  beneath  the  sheltering  trees ! 


38      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


LAND  AND  SEA. 

UNTO  His  peoples  God  hath  given  the  land, 
And  there  allows  their  petty  ownerships, 
Their  little  acres  and  asundered  strips 
Of  titled  earth,  whereon  their  homes  may  stand ; 
But  He  the  sea  reserveth  in  His  hand, 
And  all  the  waters  thereunto  that  flow  ; 
The  ships  thereon  are  free  to  come  and  go 
By  His  sole  sufferance ;  strand  to  farthest  strand 
The  continents  like  documents  reveal 
Man's  superscription  and  his  countersign 
Traced  on  them  legibly  from  line  to  line ; 
But  like  a  hidden  scroll  the  sea  doth  bear 
The  single  stamp  of  God's  great  signet-seal, 
Nor  could  he  break  it,  who  should  even  dare ! 


The  Sea.  39 


THE  SEA. 

COULD  I  in  numbers  tell  of  the  great  sea, 
And  gather  up  the  purport  of  the  sound 
Wherewith  on  many  shores  unceasingly 
It  makes  its  moan,  the  continents  around  ; 
Could  I  its  battlings  understand  aright, 
As  to  the  deep  the  tempest  gives  alarm, 
Divine  its  passion  on  a  moonlit  night, 
Or  guess  the  secret  underneath  its  calm, — 
Then  could  I  wrest  the  meaning  out  of  life 
And  could  unlock  the  door  of  my  own  heart, 
Know  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  strife, 
And  comprehend  the  purpose  of  the  part 
In  the  great  whole  —  yea,  by  the  burdened  sea 
Foreread  the  future  and  its  mystery. 


40      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


TO  A  PORTRAIT  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN. 

THY  rugged  features  more  heroic  are 
Than  chiselled  outlines  of  some  godlike 

Greek ; 

Thy  steadfast  lips  more  eloquent  did  speak 
Than  lips  of  orators  renowned  afar ; 
While  gentle  wit  and  tolerance  of  folly, 
And  human  sympathies  and  love  of  right 
Shone  never  with  more  kind  and  steady  light 
Than  from  the  cavern  of  thy  melancholy. 
O  prophet  sorrowful,  did  thy  deep  eyes 
Foresee  and  weep  thy  country's  agonies  ? 
And  did  thy  lonely  heart  foreread  thy  doom 
To  give  thy  brow  such  majesty  of  gloom  ? 
Ah,  hadst  thou  seen  the  end,  thou  still  hadst  led 
Thy  people  with  the  same  unswerving  tread ! 


Sonnet.  41 


11  f  •  AHEY   also  serve  who  only  stand   and 

1     wait." 

How  many  hearts  high  words  have  comforted ! 
Dumb  hearts  and  slow,  that  have  no  wit  to 

phrase 

The  plainest  duty  for  themselves,  are  led 
To  brave  endurance  and  to  feats  of  praise 
By  some  stern  prophet's  vigorous  command. 
As  leaders  call  upon  the  battle-field, 
And  feeble  knees  grow  strong  and  weapons  yield 
A  sudden  valor  to  the  timid  hand, 
So  do  great  words  go  ringing  down  the  days, 
And  cowards  follow  in  heroic  ways. 
But  for  great  Milton's  far-resounding  word 
Had  thousands  fallen  faint  of  hope  deferred : 
But  for  his  patience,  I  of  low  estate 
Had  cursed  my  life  this  day  and  scorned  to  wait. 


42     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


PEXIEL. 

O  WRESTLING  angel  of  the   long  night 
hours, 

Unbidden  comer  to  a  lonely  place, 
At  thy  dread  grasp  an  awful  fear  devours 
My  soul,  yet  will  I  not  entreat  for  grace. 
Still  struggling  with  thee  till  the  break  of  day, 
Hurt  in  my  sinew,  spent  with  weariness, 
Remembering  Jacob,  I  am  strong  to  say 
"  I  will  not  let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  !  " 
So  shalt  thou  bless  me,  and  I  shall  prevail. 
I  may  not  make  thee  tell  me  who  thou  art, 
Strange  spirit,  fleeing  at  the  dawnlight  pale, 
And  I  am  grievous  hurt ;  yet  in  my  heart 
I  know  that  God  hath  met  me  in  this  place, 
And  that  I  here  have  seen  Him  face  to  face. 


The  Worth  of  Speech.  43 


THE  WORTH  OF  SPEECH. 

HAST  thou  a  word  to  give  thy  brother  man  ? 
Hold  it  not  back,  for  bitter  is  his  need, 
No  less  of  noble  end  than  kindly  deed 
To  help  him  onward  in  his  journey's  span. 
The  faintest  breath  may  into  action  fan 
A  slumbering  impulse.     Little  boots  thy  creed 
Or  thine  own  doubt,  if  thou  hast  fuel  to  feed 
The  fire  low-burning  in  some  soul.     Who  can, 
Is  bound  to  speak.     Good  deeds  must  minister 
To  this  poor  body  with  its  store  of  ills, 
But  one  white  word  with  sudden  glory  fills 
The  inmost  heart,  and  doth  such  boon  confer 
That  evermore  the  life  is  blessed  thereby, 
And  comes  more  nearly  to  the  true  and  high. 


44      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


WHO  have  not  been  in  bondage  do  not  know 
The  length  and  height  and  breadth  of 

liberty ; 

The  captive  hath  its  measure ;  only  he 
Conceives  how  free  the  winds  of  heaven  blow. 
They  value  health  who  most  have  felt  pain's 

throe, 

And  weakness  best  appraises  hardihood. 
Of  want  alone  is  plenty  understood, 
And  friends  unto  the  friendless  fairest  show. 
O  frail  humanity,  that  still  must  learn 
By  losing,  and  must  comprehend  through  pain, 
This  is  the  mystery  of  life,  to  yearn, 
To  lose,  and  out  of  losses  to  make  gain. 
The  spirit  grows  by  that  which  takes  away, 
And  wisdom  maketh  rich  the  impoverished  day. 


One  of  Full  Years  who  died  in  her  Sleep.    45 


TO  ONE  OF  FULL  YEARS  WHO  DIED 
IN  HER  SLEEP. 

AS  peacefully  as  a  perfected  flower 
•*J^  Doth  drop  its  petals  in  the  quiet  night, 
Her  spirit  in  the  dark  hath  taken  flight 
At  the  swift  summons  of  the  silent  power. 
So  easily  hath  she  attained  that  hour 
That  others  gain  but  after  bitter  fight 
And  weariness  and  faintings  and  affright 
And  lonely  vigils  in  death's  prison  tower. 
Ah,  were  but  death  so  pitiful  to  all, 
And  we  could  die  as  we  lie  down  to  sleep, 
With  one  familiar  prayer  that  we  repeat, 
To  bid  the  dear  Lord  take  our  souls  and  keep, 
Then  death  were  but  a  kindness  to  befall 
Some  night  at  end  of  life,  when  rest  is  sweet ! 


46     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


TO  ONE  WHOSE  FATHER  DIED 
BEFORE  HER  BIRTH. 

IS  this  the  sorrow  writ  within  thine  eyes, 
Thy  mother's  woe  while  yet  thou  wast  un 
born, 

So  that  from  birth  thou  wast  already  wise 
In  the  great  griefs  that  leave  the  heart  forlorn  ? 
A  child  of  grief  indeed  thou  seem'st  to  me  ; 
Thy  brow  doth  wear  the  trouble  of  past  years, 
Remembered  not,  yet  ever  borne  by  thee, 
Whose  eyes  are  heavy  with  thy  mother's  tears. 
Couldst  thou,  remembering,  grieving,  mourn  for 

him 

As  we  our  fathers  mourn  in  tenderness, 
Thy  face  were  not  so  filled  with  longing  dim, 
The  yearning  of  a  child  bora  fatherless. 
Strange  mystery  —  that  thou  shouldst  meet  with 

death 
In  life's  dark  chamber,  ere  thou  drewest  breath  ! 


Infancy.  47 


INFANCY. 

I. 

THE  dawn  is  ever  lovelier  than  the  day ; 
The  early  morning  murmurs  of  the  wind 
Forbode  a  beauty  that  we  fail  to  find 
Along  the  noontide  turnings  of  our  way. 
The  tender  opening  of  a  poet's  lay 
Hath  hint  of  something  that  we  later  miss ; 
And  we  a  gentle  grievance  make  of  this, 
That  nothing  purer  can  musician  play 
Beyond  the  prelude.     O  thou  little  child, 
My  love,  my  unblown  rose,  that  robbed  the  dawn 
Of  sweetness,  and  from  out  the  morning  smiled, 
My  heart  is  with  a  sadness  overborne, 
That  from  thy  dewy  forehead  Time  will  steal 
Each  trace  of  freshness  as  thy  days  unseal ! 


48      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


II. 

And  yet,  thou  sweet  of  heart,  do  I  not  yearn 
To  see  thy  life  its  petals  fair  unfold, 
To  learn  what  each  to-morrow  hath  in  hold, 
And  what  each  night  will  bring  thee  in  its  turn  ? 
Though  none  there  be  so  sorrowful  and  stern 
As  silent  Time,  yet  would  I  bar  his  way, 
And  have  him  leave  thee  ever  as  to-day 
On  the  wide  world's  breast,  thou  tiny  uncurled 

fern? 

Ah,  little  one,  I  know  not  what  I  would, 
Nor  why  I  grieve  who  am  so  wholly  glad, 
Save  that  my  heart  is  burdened  for  thy  good, 
And  for  its  very  joy  of  thee  is  sad. 
My  hidden  hopes  are  interblent  with  fears, 
And  all  my  mother-love  wells  up  in  tears. 


On  the  Bust  of  a  Child.  49 


ON  THE  BUST  OF  A  CHILD. 

(BY   SERGEANT   KENDALL.) 
I. 

0  hath  the  sculptor  modelled  her  pure  face, 
That  all  its  pathos  captured  is  in  clay, 
And  I,  who  know  her  not,  could  weep  to-day 
For  love  of  childhood  and  a  dear  child's  grace ; 
Could  weep  and  yet  be  glad  in  one  sweet  space 
Before  her  loveliness.     Her  cheeks,  they  say, 
Are  like  the  wild  rose  petals  blown  in  May, 
And  like  pale  violets  born  in  some  shy  place 
Are  her  wide  eyes.     I  heed  not,  as  I  trace 
Each  perfect  line  of  lip  and  cheek  and  chin, 
And,  dreaming  that  the  soul  is  there  within, 
Yearn  but  to  take  the  tender  little  face 
In  my  two  hands,  and  so  to  bend  me  low 
To  that  sweet  mouth,  and  half-uplifted  brow  ! 


50      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


II. 

They  tell  me,  gazing,  that  to  her  the  door 
Of  sound  is  shut ;  that  she  will  never  wake 
To  voice  of  wind  or  utterance  of  lake 
Or  speech  of  friends :  then  I,  who  had  wept  o'er 
Her  simple  loveliness,  am  grieved  the  more 
With  sorrowful  sweet  pity  for  her  sake, 
And  in  the  lines  the  little  taught  lips  take 
Read  a  new  secret  pathos  missed  before. 
Yet  is  she  strangely  happy,  hearing  not ; 
Like  an  exquisite  shell  beside  the  shore 
That  has  no  knowledge  of  the  breaker's  roar, 
But  holds  the  heart  of  ocean  unforgot ; 
That  through  all  tumult  and  all  wild  unease 
Hears  but  the  sound  of  stillness  in  deep  seas. 


Sonnet.  51 


T  HOLD  my  darling  close  against  my  heart, 
•*•  I  press  my  lips  upon  his  golden  head, 
I  feel  his  breathing  and  each  childish  start, 
Whereby  my  love  is  strangely  comforted. 
He  slumbers  sound  upon  my  circling  arm, 
Nor  dreams  that  I  must  lie  awake  for  joy, 
That  I  may  thus  encompass  him  from  harm, 
This  sweet  night  long,  my  golden-hearted  boy. 
Ah,  could  I  ever  have  him  near  to  me, 
Protect  my  darling  always,  night  and  day, 
How  then  my  heart  would  ever  richer  be, 
How  then  my  life  would  stretch  a  shining  way  f 
But  I  must  dream  again  in  loneliness 
Of  these  sweet  lips  that  I  so  fondly  press. 


52     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


MY  sister's  child,  and  almost  child  of  mine, 
Is  mother-love  a  greater  love  than  this  ? 
Could  mother-love  more  wistfully  resign 
Its  precious  burden  and  its  weight  of  bliss  ? 
My  heart  is  heavy  with  the  love  of  thee, 
My  eyes  I  lift  not  lest  they  overflow ; 
Now  have  they  come  to  take  thee  far  from  me, 

0  heart,  my  heart,  how  can  I  let  thee  go  ? 

1  have  no  help,  for  thou  art  not  my  own, 

I  have  all  pain,  so  much  my  own  thou  art  ; 
I  must  go  forward  childless  and  alone, 
And  hide  from  men  the  hurt  within  my  heart. 
My  steps  are  ready  and  my  eyes  are  set, 
Good-bye,  my  child,  —  O   love,  my  love,  not 
yet! 


Sonnet.  53 


T  ET  me  not  mourn  the  sweet  forgotten  kiss 
•*- '  Who  still  may  guide  my  darling  on  his 

way; 

Let  me  not  grieve  for  that  departed  day, 
Nor  overmuch  the  childish  fondlings  miss ; 
Shall  I  not  learn  a  new  and  higher  bliss 
As  he  and  I  the  unfolding  laws  obey  ? 
Let  other  loves  supplant  me  as  they  may 
Still  shall  I  be  forever  sure  of  this : 
To  these  new  loves  my  love  hath  moulded  him ; 
E'en  though  I  die,  and  fade  into  the  dim 
Faint  region  of  his  past,  yet  shall  I  be 
Forever  part  of  his  sweet  destiny ! 
This  single  deed  of  loving  have  I  wrought, 
That  of  my  love  his  tenderness  was  taught. 


54     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


HER  face  I  hold  a  vision  in  my  heart, 
Bright,  lovely,  and  unfading,  safe  from 
change ; 

Time  cannot  harm  it,  hidden  there  apart, 
Nor  seasons  write  upon  it  as  a  scroll, 
Nor  sorrow  grave  it.     Nothing  sad  or  strange 
Can  come  unto  it,  marring  one  fair  line 
Of  the  old  loveliness.     Radiant  it  doth  shine 
Like  a  perpetual  sunlight  in  my  soul. 
Undimmed  the  goddess-glory,  youth  like  gold, 
The  clear-eyed  gaze,  and  smile  so  human-sweet, 
The  face  like  morning  that  I  ran  to  meet, 
That  was  my  light  of  living  through  child  years, 
And  lit  the  way  of  life  as  I  grew  old. 
Though  sorrow  blind  my  eyes  with  bitter  tears, 
And  all  men's  faces  are  a  mist  to  me, 
Her  face  of  joy  forever  I  behold, 
With  clearest  sight  I  shall  forever  see. 


Sonnet.  55 


IF  thought  some  swifter  travel  could  but  find 
Than  this  laborious  slow  written  speech, 
If  scientists  some  braver  way  could  teach 
By  which  we  might  indeed  outstrip  the  wind, 
Then  I  to  thee  my  musings  could  unbind, 
And  we  two  could  be  talking  each  to  each, 
And  every  quiet  thought  of  mine  would  reach 
Across  a  continent  to  touch  thy  mind. 
Across  bare  ether  do  the  currents  sweep 
That  yesterday  were  shackled.     Who  shall  say 
They  shall  not  go  untrammelled  through  the 

deep 

Ere  sets  to-morrow's  sun,  or  that  some  day 
The  unknown  forces  in  the  mind  that  keep 
Shall  not  compel  all  barriers  to  give  way  ? 

To  K.  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO. 


56      The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


/IS  one  doth  vainly  struggle  to  recall 
x\-  The  clear  elusive  note  of  some  wild  bird, 
And  longs  again  to  have  the  pure  notes  fall 
That  he  alas !  too  transiently  has  heard, 
So  do  I  seek  thy  presence  to  restore, 
That  wove  about  ray  heart  so  swift  a  spell, 
And   long   to   feel   thy  nameless   charm   once 

more, 

Dear  stranger,  loved  so  suddenly  and  well ! 
As  he  within  the  forest  hearkens  long 
For  that  one  bird  to  sing  its  sweet  way  back, 
And  goes  disconsolate  till  that  one  song 
Again  outbreaks  to  fill  his  spirit's  lack,  — 
So  I,  reluctant,  go  upon  my  way, 
And  for  our  next  sweet  meeting  dumbly  pray. 


Sonnet.  57 


T>E  thou  my  friend,  dear  friend,  for  friend 

-*-*       thou  art 

And  shalt  be  whether  thou  wilt  be  or  no ; 

Thou  canst  not  shut  thyself  from  out  my  heart, 

Not  take  away  the  knowledge  that  I  know. 

Forever  thou  art  lovely  to  my  love, 

Nor  with  thy  graces  canst  thou  unacquaint 

A  heart  that  hath  acquaintanceship  above 

All   portraits   of  thee  that   thy  friends  could 

paint. 

So  truly  in  my  love  thou  art  portrayed 
That  I  do  count  thee  altogether  mine, 
And  of  the  future  am  so  unafraid 
That  I  will  ask  of  thee  no  word  or  sign. 
I  need  no  pledge  of  friendship's  surety 
Who  am  so  sure  of  friendship  and  of  thee. 


58     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


SOLITUDE. 

I. 

I  LOVE  my  friends,  yet  love  I  solitude, 
And  love  to  go  alone  beneath  the  sky, 
Unhindered  as  the  winds  that  wander  by, 
And  irresponsible  :  now  in  the  wood, 
Now  in  the  field  to  linger,  at  my  mood, 
And  now  upon  some  grassy  slope  to  lie 
Too  undisturbed  to  care  to  question  why 
One  spot  above  another  should  seem  good ; 
To  choose  my  way  without  a  thought  of  choice, 
As  rivers  are  unconscious  where  they  wind, 
And  clouds  all  day  will  drift  contentedly ; 
To  let  my  misty  thoughts  blow  loose  and  free, 
Untroubled  by  the  sound  of  my  own  voice 
Or  by  the  leading  of  another's  mind. 


Solitude.  59 


II. 

Or  like  some  little  creature  in  the  wood, 
That  follows  busily  a  single  quest, 
Some  burning  purpose  in  his  little  breast, 
Unquestioned,  unmolested,  unpursued, 
So  do  I  love  in  hours  of  solitude 
To  follow  hard  my  fancy  east  or  west, 
The  secret  of  my  going  unconfessed, 
A  hidden  purpose  working  in  the  blood. 
I  find  it  strangely  pleasant  to  be  dumb, 
To  harbor  secrets  that  are  all  my  own, 
And  keep  my  motives  to  myself  alone ; 
To  learn  how  life  and  industry  are  sweet 
To  little  animals ;  to  go  and  come 
As  they  do,  with  mute  lips  and  busy  feet. 


60     The  English  Poets  and  other  Sonnets. 


RECOGNITION. 

OUR  eyes  are  holden  that  we  may  not  see. 
With  hearts  that  burn  within  us  do  we 

stray 

Along  some  old  familiar  grass-grown  way, 
And  reach  our  hands  to  some  outspreading  tree 
That  waits  us  by  the  roadside,  brotherly. 
We  wander  down  the  fields  as  children  may, 
And  loiter  with  the  loitering  summer  day, 
But  miss  the  recognition.     Blind  are  we. 
Only,  sometimes  there  falls  a  healing  touch 
On  our  dull  lids,  and  for  a  moment's  space 
The  look  of  this  old  earth  we  love  so  much 
And  grieve  so  much  with  our  distrust  and  doubt, 
Is  like  the  look  of  some  long-absent  face 
Whose  sudden  nearness  makes  the  heart  cry  out ! 


A  DREAM. 

I  DREAMED  a  fair  and  fragile  dream 
A  maid  in  amethyst 
Sat  where  the  tinted  light  did  stream 
As  through  a  jewelled  mist. 

In  fashion  strange  the  dream  did  come,  - 
In  Csedmon  it  was  writ ; 
I  seemed  to  read  the  ancient  tome, 
Yet  saw  the  maiden  sit 

Where  falling  lights  and  shadows  met, 
And  heard  her  tell  her  tale 
To  jewels  in  the  mullions  set, 
That  flashed  and  then  grew  pale. 

"  My  mother  made  a  vow,  and  so 
Her  child  must  be  a  nun. 
I  must  unto  the  convent  go 
When  my  trousseau  is  done." 


64     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 

I  turned  a  page  and  saw  with  her 
Rich  robes  of  shining  blue, 
And  all  the  garments  sprinkled  were 
With  rosemary  and  roe. 

I  sought  again  the  maiden's  face ; 
She  made  no  plaint  or  moan, 
But  did  her  simple  words  retrace 
In  a  sweet  undertone. 

"  Unto  the  convent  I  must  go 
When  my  trousseau  is  done, 
My  mother  made  a  vow,  and  so 
Her  child  must  be  a  nun." 

So  piteous  she  leaned  her  head 
Against  the  casement  there, 
I  made  to  close  the  book  I  read 
That  I  might  smooth  her  hair. 

The  dream  did  fade  like  morning  mist, 
Yet  does  my  heart  see  now 
That  figure  clad  in  amethyst, 
That  pure  and  patient  brow ! 


My  Lady's  Eyes.  65 


MY  LADY'S  EYES. 

MY  lady's  eyes  are  limpid  springs, 
More  pure  than  any  mountain  lake ; 
Thereto  mine  own  do  come  to  drink, 
But  unto  love  such  fever  clings 
That  I  my  thirst  can  never  slake 
At  their  sweet  brink ! 


66     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


OO  many  things  there  are  to  do, 

^  So  many  books  to  read ! 

Ah,  true,  but  tell  me,  you, 

Where  is  the  need, 

When  't  is  so  perfect  just  to  lie 

Deep  down  within  the  unmown  grass, 

And  watch  the  fleecy  clouds  that  pass 

Like  sheep  across  the  open  sky, 

And  to  one's  quiet  heart  repeat 

A  few  sweet  phrases  o'er  and  o'er, 

That  one  has  gleaned  some  other  day 

From  out  of  Shakespeare's  harvest-store. 

Or  even  to  let  go 

The  poets,  and  to  know 

No  wisdom  but  the  love 

Of  this  wise  mother  earth  ; 

To  be  instructed  in  the  way 

The  wind  will  take  the  grasses,  and  to  see 

How  little  insects  travel  warily, 

And  learn  the  patience  of  all  creeping  things  ; 

To  trace  the  flight  of  envied  wings, 


Indolence.  67 


And  catch  the  bird-notes  falling  clear 
As  sudden  raindrops,  and  to  hear 
How  breezes  in  the  tree-tops  meet. 
Instructed  so, 

The  spirit's  life  is  made  more  sweet 
And  knowledge  hath  its  second  birth. 


68     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


INDIAN  NAMES. 

THEY  have  left  their  names  behind  them, 
adding  rich  barbaric  grace 
To  the  mountain,  to  the  river,  to  the  fertile 

meadow-place, 

Relics  of  the  ancient  redmen,  of  the  sad  and 
vanished  race. 

We  are  glad  beside  their  waters,  we  are  strong 
upon  their  hills, 

Their  old  poetry  upon  us,  like  a  glamour  falls, 
and  fills 

All  the  hollows  of  the  mountains,  and  the  chan 
nels  of  the  rills. 


In  Autumn.  69 


IN  AUTUMN. 

THESE  golden  days  of  fall  to  me 
Are  like  a  mint,  a  treasury 
Of  priceless  memories,  hoarded  deep 
Within  my  heart,  where  visions  keep. 

Each  falling  leaf,  each  golden  beam, 
Doth  touch  and  loose  some  olden  dream, 
Till  I  stand  deep  in  memories 
Like  leaves  thick  strewn  beneath  the  trees. 

Down  aisles  like  these,  in  early  days, 
I  walked  the  bright  autumnal  ways ; 
Through  drifts  like  these  I  thrust  my  feet, 
A  child  upon  a  golden  street. 

0  golden  days,  so  sad,  so  sweet, 
How  doth  my  heart  itself  repeat, 
As  I  look  back  the  stretch  of  years, 
And  count  the  autumns  through  my  tears. 


70     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


BITTER-SWEET. 

APRIL  rains  are  falling  fierce 
As  some  bleak  November  gale, 
Whistling  winds  that  sting  and  pierce  ; 
Gusts  of  snow  and  sudden  hail, 
Hurling  white  upon  the  hill, 
Strike  the  sweet  spring  stark  and  chill ; 
But  within,  upon  the  fire, 
I  am  building  funeral  pyre, 
WThile  I  warm  me  in  the  heat 
Of  my  burning  bitter-sweet. 

April  lies  forgot  in  storm, 
April's  buds  are  beaten  back, 
While  November's  ancient  form 
Towers  ghostlike  on  her  track, 
And  the  wraith  of  the  old  year 
Bars  her  from  her  blossomed  cheer. 
Hoarsely  beat  the  wind  and  rain, 
And  the  tossing  boughs  without 
Scratch  upon  the  window-pane, 
Like  a  plaintive  thing  shut  out ; 


Bitter-Sweet.  71 


But  within,  I  twine  the  fire 
With  the  wild  vine,  high  and  higher, 
While  I  warm  me  in  the  heat 
Of  my  burning  bitter-sweet ! 


72     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


THE  PINES. 

THE  piiie  trees  sing  dim  lullabies, 
And  sweet  watch  keep 
Over  the  new-born  snow, 
That  lies  asleep. 


Winter  Woods.  73 


WINTER  WOODS. 

THERE  is  a  solitude  in  winter  woods 
No  stranger  knows ; 
A  peace  for  unused  heart  too  deep 
In  forest  snows. 

With  reverence  on  the  threshold  wait 
Till  Nature  thee  initiate. 


74     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


WINTER  TWILIGHT. 

THE  twilight  follows  hard  the  day, 
It  slips  along  the  village  street 
And  leaves  a  silent,  shadowed  way, 
Where  figures  dim  and  fancies  meet. 


On  the  Mountain.  75 


ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

LIGHT  upon  the  mountain, 
Thy  airy  streamers  fall 

As  clear  and  spirit-piercing 

As  silver  bugle-call ! 

O  storm-cloud  on  the  mountain 
Thy  shadow  passes  by 
Like  trumpetings  of  battle 
Beneath  an  angry  sky ! 


76     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


THE  BREAKING  STORM. 

O  PASSIONATE,  storm-burdened  sky, 
With  windy  wastes  of  water  under  ! 
I  see  the  rain-clouds  sweeping  by 
And  hear  them  rolling  up  the  thunder, 

And  feel  a  wild  tempestuous  glee 

Go  coursing  through  my  soul's  commotion, 

To  see  the  elements  set  free 

Upon  the  stretches  of  the  ocean ! 


After  the  Summer  Rain.  77 


AFTER  THE  SUMMER  RAIN. 

A7TER  the  summer  rain 
The  air  is  sweet  with  the  scent  of 

flowers 

Crushed  by  the  beat  of  the  silver  showers, 
And  the  birds  come  out  of  their  leafy 

bowers 

And  sing  as  if  it  were  spring  again, 
After  the  summer  rain. 


78     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


DAWN. 

THE  fair  gray  dove  of  the  earliest  dawn 
Lay  brooding  in  the  east. 
The  winds  of  the  day  were  yet  unborn, 
The  winds  of  the  night  had  ceased. 

More  fair  than  the  flush  at  the  mountains'  rim 
Was  that  grayness  soft  and  shy ; 
More  pure  than  the  sweet  birds'  morning  hymn 
That  silence  trembled  by, 

Till  the  rosy  gold  of  the  morn  out-broke, 
And  the  dawn  took  wing  away, 
And  the  world  o'  the  weary  turned  and  woke 
To  the  light  of  the  lusty  day. 


Morning  Song.  79 


MORNING  SONG. 

MY  curtain  is  pencilled  with  shadows   of 
leaves 

And  little  birds  fluttering  down  from  the  eaves, 
Glad  in  the  morning  sun ; 
Shadows  that  wave  and  tangle  and  twine 
With  every  sweet  wind  that  stirs  in  the  vine, 
Shadows  that  fly  and  are  gone  ! 

Oh,  old-fashioned  window  with  tiny  set  panes, 
Oh,  drooping  wistaria  drenched  in  night-rains, 
With  diamond  drops  still  a-shake, 
What  hath  a  palace  with  this  to  compare, 
My  own  morning  glimpse  of  vine  and  fresh  air, 
My  own  little  room  where  I  wake  ? 

THE  "  HESSIAN  HOUSE 
NEWPORT. 


80     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


IF  I  could  but  rebuild  in  rhyme 
The  slow-wrought  loveliness  of  time, 
This  ancient  house  should  ever  stand 
To  grace  and  beautify  the  land ; 
Its  beaten  front  still  face  the  sea, 
And  still  the  vines  luxuriantly 
Enwrap  the  mouldering  walls  and  eaves 
With  deeply  massed  wistaria  leaves, 
And  still  should  waving  shadows  blow 
Across  the  vine-set  casements  so  ! 

THE  "  HESSIAN  HOUSE," 
NEWPORT. 


Mariposa  Lilies.  81 


MARIPOSA   LILIES. 

WE  saw  them  on  the  side  of  dark  Cheyenne, 
Pale-gleaming  in  the  moonlight  as  we 

rode, 

For  night  had  closed  around  us  once  again 
And  laid  its  beauty  on  us  like  a  load. 
Before  us  stretched  the  prairies  as  the  sea, 
The  mountains  and  the  moon  rose  up  behind, 
And  strangeness  was  afloat  upon  the  wind. 
A  murmur  of  things  past  and  things  to  be, 
Their  startling  loveliness  besought  us  there 
Like  some  sweet  thought  that  cometh  unaware, 
Their  pale  cups  lifted  to  the  heavens  wide, 
So  slender-stemmed  upon  the  mountain  side  ! 


82     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


WIND  IN  THE  TREES. 

WAKE,  wake,  wind  in  the  trees ! 
Songs  of  the  mainland,  songs  of  the  seas, 
Whispers  of  heaven,  moanings  of  earth, 
Anguish  at  dying,  travail  at  birth, 
Rapture  of  loving,  joy  in  the  light, 
Grief  and  betrayal,  fear  of  the  night, 
Loneliness,  madness,  glory,  and  pain, 
Yearning,  fulfilment,  and  yearning  again ;  — 
These  are  thy  songs,  and  stranger  than  these. 
Wake,  wake,  wind  in  the  trees ! 


The  Bell-Buoy.  83 


THE  BELL-BUOY. 

0  HARK  !  0  hark ! 

A  voice  goes  swinging  through  the  dark 
To  bid  the  mariner  beware  —  beware  —  beware ! 
The  night  is  black,  and  ominous  the  air, 
And  fears  upon  my  heart  press  heavily, 
For  many  be  the  sailors  out  at  sea, 
And  many  mothers  kneel  this  night  in  prayer. 
Ah  God !  and  there  are  shipwrecks  everywhere 
While  borne  along  the  north-wind's  moan 
I  hear  that  ceaseless  monotone 
Its  iterated  warning  bear. 

0  hark !  0  hark  ! 

0  mariner,  beware  —  beware  —  beware  ! 
The  wave-tossed  echoes,  dim  and  gaunt, 
Like  spectral  shadows  clutch  at  me, 
As  if  some  burdened  soul  did  haunt 
Those  shoals  along  the  outer  dark, 
And  expiate  eternally 
Some  distant  wrong,  by  hovering  there 
To  bid  the  mariner  beware  —  beware  —  beware ! 


84     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


THE  SILENT  VISITORS. 

THE   fairest   things  are   those   that  silent 
come : 

Ye  may  not  hear  the  footfall  of  the  flowers, 
Nor  the  descending  of  the  nightly  de\v, 
Nor  by  the  sound  of  dropping  may  ye  know 
When  come  the  flakes  of  the  down-falling  snow ; 
The  ear  may  not  detect  one  shadow  pass 
Across  the  quiet,  unforeboding  grass, 
Nor  any  fleecy  cloud  across  the  blue  ; 
The  sweet  approaching  of  the  morning  hours 
Ye  may  not  listen  for,  nor  may  ye  hark 
To  hear  the  mystic  closing-ill  of  dark  ; 
The  little  stars  are  silent  up  above ; 
There  is  no  sudden  sound  upon  the  sea 
When  breaks  the  moonlight  on  it  silverly. 
Ah,  so  the  poem  to  the  poet's  brain 
Steals  silently  as  doth  the  thought  of  home. 
And  hearts  may  listen  and  may  vainly  strain 
But  cannot  hear  the  coming-in  of  love  ! 


Quest.  85 


QUEST. 

THERE  is  a  mantle  cast  upon  the  hills, 
There  is  a  strange  suffusion  of  the  air, 
My  soul  is  filled  with  vague  and  nameless  thrills, 
And  I  am  urged  to  go,  I  know  not  where. 

Whence  are  these  longings  set  within  my  feet  ? 
Whence  are  these    eager  quickenings  of   the 

heart  ? 

Whence  is  this  sense  of  life,  so  new  and  sweet  ? 
Ah,  let  me  hasten,  ere  the  glow  depart ! 


86      Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


CALL. 

THE  rainbow  draws  me  and  the  purple  hills, 
I  needs  must  go,  I  know  not  whereunto, 
The  river  leads  me,  and  the  little  rills, 
I  follow  on  —  what  matter  whereunto  ? 

The  ocean  claims  me,  and  the  ceaseless  tides 
Call  up  unto  my  soul  forevermore, 
The  tempest,  also,  and  the  storm  that  rides, 
These  summon  me  forever,  —  evermore  ! 


The  Clue.  87 


THE  CLUE. 

I  FOLLOWED  it  through  wooded  dell 
And  by  the  river's  gleam, 
I  sought  it  in  the  pink-lined  bell 
That  swings  beside  the  stream. 

I  felt  it  tremble  on  the  air 
Before  the  winds  of  dawn, 
And  touched  it,  but  to  lose  it  there, 
As  it  was  onward  borne. 

I  heard  it  fall  a  silver  note 

Upon  a  twilight  sea, 

From  out  the  vesper  sparrow's  throat, 

To  vanish  utterly. 

I  dreamed  I  had  it  of  the  star 
That  guides  upon  the  deep, 
But  when  I  waked  it  still  was  far 
Within  the  bournes  of  sleep  ! 


88     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW 

A~I,  just  to  yonder  purple  hill, 
Where  rainbow  and  horizon  meet, 
We  hurry  on  and  hurry  still, 
With  swift  impatient  childish  feet, 
To  find  the  fabled  pot  of  gold. 
So  tired  soon  —  we  did  not  know 
The  way  would  be  so  far  to  go 
Before  the  pretty  tiling  were  gained  ; 
Yet  struggle  on,  all  travel-stained, 
Like  little  children  over-bold, 
And  wonder  that  the  hills  retreat 
Where  rainbow  and  horizon  meet ! 


Fragment.  89 


1"  IFE  was  real  in  childhood  days, 
•*— '  Life  was  true  and  things  were  so, 
But  now  I  know  not  what  I  know, 
There  is  a  mist  athwart  my  ways. 

There  is  a  film  across  my  brain, 
I  reach  my  hand  and  grasp  but  shade. 
The  days  of  shadow  stuff  are  made, 
Of  mocking  joys  and  dreams  of  pain. 


90     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


O   SPENDTHRIFT  years,  when   without 
ruth 

We  squandered  all  the  gold  of  youth, 
And  cast  our  coin  to  wind  and  rain ; 
In  our  impoverishment  how  we 
Look  back  upon  that  liberty, 
And  cry  for  one  young  hour  again  ! 


Fragment.  91 


O  WEARY  are  the  watches  of  the  night, 
Before  the  morning  dawneth  still  and 

white, 

And  bitter  are  the  thoughts  that  toss  and  start 
Within  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  heart. 


92     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


"TO  RUISED  in  spirit,  sore  at  heart, 
-*-*  To  the  healing  woods  I  fled, 
Found  one  little  forest  flower, 
Sent  me  early,  for  that  hour  ; 
And  I  straight  was  comforted. 

SAVANNAH. 


Fragment.  93 


'  I  AHE  price  of  wisdom  is  the  thing  most  dear 

-*•       in  life, 

And  Odin  bought  it  with  his  plucked-out  eye, 
And  drank  there  of  the  well  by  the  Ygdrasil- 
tree. 

Thou,  .  .  .  ,  art  my  price  —  most  precious  ever 

paid. 

Why  must  I  this,  who  cared  not  to  be  wise  ? 
I  would  forever  thirst,  might  I  but  still  have 

thee ! 


94     Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Fragments. 


I    MISSED  the  cherished  thing  I  sought, 
And  gained  a  thing  that  others  miss, 
Who  do  but  envy  me  for  this, 
Nor  know  how  dearly  it  was  bought. 


To  H.  B.  J.  95 


TO  H.  B.  J. 

TO  leave  done  all  that  I  can 
Of  kindness  and  beautiful  thought, 
With  love  fill  life's  little  span,  — 
This  will  I  seek,  as  she  sought. 

Sought  she  ?     Nay,  as  the  flower 
Springeth  nor  dreameth  of  death, 
So  she  unfolded  in  power ; 
Love  was  her  life  and  her  breath. 


ant) 


LITTLE -FOLK  LAND. 

THE  children  all  go  looking 
In  vain  for  Fairyland, 
Where  little  folk  have  dwelling, 
And  wander  hand  in  hand ; 
Where  silvery  small  voices 
Ring  clear  upon  the  air, 
Where  magic  little  whispers 
Work  wonders  everywhere ; 
Where  flower  fields  are  forests, 
For  tiny  feet  to  thread, 
Where  one  has  lived  a  lifetime 
Before  the  day  is  fled. 
For  this  dear  wondrous  country 
The  children  look  in  vain ; 
They  find  but  empty  flowers, 
Through  sun  and  summer  rain. 
It  is  the  grown  folks  only 
Have  eyes  for  Fairyland, 
Where  little  people  wander, 
And  toddle  hand  in  hand  ; 


100  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 

Where  gleeful  voices  prattle, 
And  whisper  secrets  strange ; 
Where  tiny  sprites  by  magic 
To  bigger  fairies  change  ; 
Where  dancing  little  figures 
Get  lost  amid  the  flowers ; 
Where  days  as  years  are  measured, 
And  minutes  count  for  hours : 
It  is  the  grown  folks  only 
Can  find  the  land  of  elves ; 
How  could  the  children  guess  it  ? 
The  fairies  are  themselves. 


To  H.  J.  101 


TO  H.  J. 

WERE  you  a  little  Dutch  girl 
You  'd  be,  perhaps,  as  sweet, 
As  now  you  are,  my  hoyden, 
And  very  much  more  neat ! 

You  'd  be  a  little  housewife, 
And  even  at  your  play 
You  'd  take  your  knitting  needles, 
And  knit  and  knit  away ! 

You  'd  never  be  forgetting 
To  feed  your  pussy-cat, 
And  she,  like  Holland  pussies, 
Would  grow  so  sleek  and  fat. 

But  were  you,  dear,  a  Gretchen, 
You  'd  live  across  the  sea, 
And  so  would  be,  my  dearie, 
No  kind  of  use  to  me. 


102  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


TO  E.  K. 

WITH   A    PHOTOGRAPH. 

00  that  you  may  remember,  little  maid, 

^  And  keep  my  name  until  you  come  again, 
And  look  up  laughing  at  me,  unafraid, 
And  let  me  kiss  you  as  I  kissed  you  when 
We  played  together  in  the  maple  shade,  — 

1  send  you  here  this  other  little  maid, 

Who  likewise  loved  the  blossoms  and  the  trees, 
And  all  the  sounds  that  filled  the  summer  air ; 
Who  held  her  baby  face  against  the  breeze, 
And  laughed  to  feel  it  playing  in  her  hair. 

Last  summer,  little  maid,  was  long  ago, 
But  I  have  not  forgotten,  nor  have  you, 
The  marigolds  that  sleep  beneath  the  snow ; 
I  pray  you,  little  friend,  remember  too 
The  one  that  loved  you  in  that  long  ago. 


A  Plea.  103 


A  PLEA. 

O  LITTLE  maidens  of  to-day, 
Like  little,  dear,  old-fashioned  girls, 
You  part  your  hair  and  brush  your  curls, 
Smooth  off  the  brow 
And  wonder  how 
The  pity  ever  came  to  pass 
That  every  little  lad  and  lass      , 
Some  years  ago  —  as  pictures  show  — 
Did  cut  their  hair  and  let  it  drop 
To  cover  their  sweet  foreheads  up. 
To-morrow's  little  maidens,  pray, 
Will  ye  not  also  please  to  wear 
The  pretty  bands  of  parted  hair, 
And  leave  your  little  foreheads  bare  ? 


104  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


TO  ELIZABETH. 

WEET  and  warm  is  the  summer's  breath, 

Warm  and  wide  is  the  summer's  sea, 
But  the  heart  of  the  summer  I  find  in  thee, 
Barefoot  baby,  Elizabeth  ! 

Little  brown  legs  and  dimpled  feet, 
Little  brown  dimpled  arms  and  hands, 
Child  of  the  sun,  child  of  the  sands. 
What  hath  the  summer  so  sweet,  so  sweet ! 

Little  brown  face  where  merriment  plays, 
Soft  blown  hair  in  a  golden  mist, 
Sweet  little  lips  so  newly  kissed, 
Dear  little  voice  and  darling  ways. 

Great  dark  eyes  where  baby  thoughts  lie, 
Shy  and  shadowy,  dim  and  deep, 
Where  wonderful  visions  slumber  and  sleep, 
And  fleet  little  fancies  go  dreamily  by. 

All  that  babyhood  means,  thou  art ; 
More  than  summer  can  give,  thou  hast ; 
Love  lies  hid  in  thy  tiny  past 
And  thy  unrolled  future,  dear  little  heart ! 


To  Elizabeth.  105 


Little  daughter  of  artists,  thou, 

Art  part  of  beauty's  unwaking  dream, 

Art  touched  with  the  wandering  light,  the  gleam, 

That  strays  over  earth,  we  know  not  how. 

The  light  that  beckons  the  artist  on, 
And  haunts  the  poet  with  wordless  grace, 
Has  fallen  fair  on  thy  baby  face, 
Divinely  lingers,  and  is  not  gone. 


106  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


T  IKE  a  piece  of  thistle-down 
•*— '  That  floats  across  the  grass 
Was  blown  into  my  garden-bed 
The  dearest  little  lass  ! 

She  lit  among  the  lily-blooms 
And  lingered  there  a  space, 
And  every  little  blossom  reached 
To  kiss  her  baby  face. 


Song.  107 


MY  flowers  bloom  more  sweet  for  me  to-day 
Because  a  little  maid  once  passed  their 

way 

And  flung  about  them  in  the  summer  air 
The  spell  of  baby  looks  and  blowing  hair. 


108  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


LOIS. 

WHEN  the  gentle  maiden  Lois 
Sings  her  twilight  songs, 
Wistful  thoughts  and  fanciful 
Coine  to  me  in  throngs. 

Lois's  eyes  are  full  of  dreams, 
Dreamy  is  her  voice ; 
Sweet  the  dear,  old-fashioned  songs 
Sung  to  me  by  Lois  ! 


To  E.  B.  D.  109 


TO  E.  B.  D. 

HO,  little  boy,  how  I  long  to  be 
Back  in  my  chosen  place, 
With  a  book  of  songs  and  thoughts  of  the  sea 
And  you,  little  boy,  in  the  nook  with  me, 
Sharing  the  morning's  grace  ! 

High,  high  in  our  perilous  seat 

Over  the  precipice-brow, 
Sky  overhead  and  sea  at  our  feet, 
On  the  sheer  gray  rocks  where  the  salt  winds 
meet 

Would  that  we  both  were  now  ! 

Snug,  snug  in  our  sun-warmed  nest, 

Would  we  again  could  lie, 
And  watch  the  birds  on  the  ocean's  breast, 
And  sing  the  songs  that  we  love  the  best, 

You,  little  boy,  and  I ! 

We  would  sing  old  songs  and  make  us  new, 

There  on  the  lichened  rock ; 
And  this  is  the  song  I  would  make  for  you, 
Watching  the  boats  in  the  harbor  blue, 

And  the  distant  white-winged  flock : 


110  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 

Out  afloat  in  a  bonny  boat, 
With  glad  sail  spread  to  the  breeze, 
Oh,  to  go  where  the  white  wings  show 
Far  on  the  blue,  blue  seas  ! 


Tossing  along  with  a  shout  and  song, 
And  a  snatch  of  a  sailor's  stave, 
Blithe  and  free  as  the  sunbeam  sea, 
Or  the  bird  that  rocks  on  the  wave. 


Oh,  to  sail  in  the  windy  gale 

Where  the  wild  sea-horses  plunge, 

Where  the  white  storm  drives,  and  tlie  bent 

sail  strives 
On  with  its  lift  and  lunge  f 

Oh,  to  be  on  a  changed  sea, 
When  the  shifting  squall-winds  scud, 
To  feel  'mid  the  strain  of  wind  and  rain 
The  leaping  of  sailor's  blood/ 

For  bravest  far  of  the  hearts  that  are 
Is  the  heart  of  tlie  man  at  sea, 
And  tlie  ocean  life  of  windy  strife 
Is  the  life  for  you  and  me. 


To  E.  B.  D.  Ill 

There  we  would  sit  through  the  high  blue  noon, 

Dreaming  of  ships  and  spars, 
Making  a  song  for  the  winds  to  croon : 
"  Oh,  to  sail  under  sun  and  moon 

And  under  the  lonely  stars !  " 


112  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


"  LULLABY-LAND." 

WHERE  is  the  road  to  Lullaby-land  ? 
Where  is  the  ferry  to  Dreamlaiid-shore  ? 
Here,  little  wanderer,  take  ray  hand, 
Mother  will  show  thee  to  Lullaby-land, 
Mother  will  ferry  her  darling  o'er 
The  sweet  rocking  waters  to  Dreamland-shore. 

Soft  lie  the  shadows  in  Lullaby-land, 
Soft  lap  the  waters  by  Dreamland-shore, 
Sweet  is  the  sound  on  that  far-away  strand 
Of  little  keels  grating  along  the  sand, 
And  tenderly  stealeth  the  moonlight  o'er 
The  dear  little  children  on  Dreamland-shore. 

Here,  little  weary  one,  take  my  hand, 

Soon  shall  my  dearie  be  far  afloat ; 

Mother's  lap  is  Lullaby-land, 

Mother's  arms  are  the  empty  boat, 

Waiting  to  carry  her  darling  o'er 

The  sweet  rocking  waters  to  Dreamland-shore. 


Lullaby.  113 


o 


LULLABY. 

IUT  beneath  the  summer  sky, 
We  will  weave  a  lullaby, 
By-low,  baby,  lullaby. 


Little  breezes  of  the  air, 
Stoop  to  kiss  my  baby's  hair, 
Grasses  tall  and  bending  bough 
Stoop  to  guard  my  baby's  brow, 
Mother  birds  are  hiding  high, 
Gentle  shadows  wander  by, 
Where  the  quiet  hollows  lie 
Sleeping  to  my  lullaby, 

By-low,  baby,  lullaby. 

Meadow  murmurs  steal  along 
In  a  misty  slumber  song, 
Little  blossoms  whisper  low, 
Tossing  incense  to  and  fro, 
Tender  echoes  wake  and  die, 
Little  thoughts  go  blowing  by, 
Little  dreams  go  floating  high, 
While  I  weave  my  lullaby, 

By-low,  baby,  lullaby ! 

8 


114  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


"THE  END  OF  THE  DAY." 

(TO    THE    PAINTING    BY    SERGEANT   KENDALL.) 

THE  tender  lights  grow  quiet  in  the  sky, 
The  plays  of  little  children  all  are  done, 
The  starlight  will  come  creeping  by  and  by, 
While  thou  and  I  take  comfort,  little  one. 

The  day  hath  heavy  been  and  fall  of  care, 
My  heart  hath  wearied,  eager  for  the  night, 
But  I  am  healed  as  I  kiss  thy  hair 
And  fold  thee  to  me  in  the  fading  light. 

Thy  slumberous  dark  eyes  are  wide  with  dreams ; 
Where  hast  thou  fared,  my  baby,  at  thy  play, 
From  what  far  wonderlands  and  tinkling  streams 
Comest  thou  to  me  at  the  end  of  day  ? 


"  The  End  of  the  Day."  1 1 5 

Drop  book  and  play ;    bring  now  thy  fancies 

home, 

Bring  home  to  mother  all  the  little  flock, 
To-morrow  they  shall  go  again  to  roam 
Abroad  remembered  fields  by  fern  and  rock. 

To-morrow  thou  shalt  prattle  sweet  again 
And  run  about  thy  free,  unconscious  ways, 
A  little  sunbeam  fallen  among  men 
And  gladdening,  whichever  way  it  strays. 

But  now,  but  now,  the  hour  is  all  my  own ; 
'T  is  mine  to  hold  thy  weary  little  frame, 
To  press  thee  close,  who  art  so  quiet  grown, 
And  murmur  by-lows  of  my  baby's  name. 

The  little  stars  come  creeping  in  the  sky, 
The  plays  of  little  children  all  are  done, 
And  thou  must  off"  to  sleepsin  by  and  by ; 
Too  brief  the  day's  end,  oh,  my  little  one  ! 


116  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


THERE  are  gardens,  gardens,  over  all  the 
land, 

Planted,  nourished,  tended  by  a  loving  Hand. 
Sweetest  of  those  gardens  is  the  one  I  know, 
Where  the  sunny  prairies  look  to  peaks  of  snow. 
Morning  draws  not  to  me,  and  the  night  comes 

not, 
But  my  thoughts  go  turning  to  that  sweetest 

spot, 
And  my  heart  makes  pleading :  "  *  Christ  the 

Gardener '  keep 
All  those   precious  blossoms  —  and    the    one 

asleep." 


The  Little  New  Moon.  117 


THE  LITTLE  NEW  MOON. 

I  SPIED  one  noon 
A  little  new  moon 
Like  a  cobweb  floating  up  high ; 
But  by  and  by, 
When  the  day  grew  old, 
It  turned  to  gold 
And  floated  down  out  of  the  sky. 


118  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


MOON  SONG. 

THERE 'S  a  throne  in  the  east  and  a  throne 
in  the  west, 

And  the  royal  heavens  lie  between. 
For  the  golden  sun  is  a  sceptred  king, 
And  the  moon  is  his  crowned  queen. 

A  lonely  queen  is  the  silver  moon, 
Though  the  dimpling  stars  her  maidens  are ; 
She  passes  among  them  silently 
As  she  follows  her  lord  afar. 


Svng.  119 


DO  you  know 
That  you  can  go 
In  the  early  morning  light 
When  the  dew  is  on  the  grass 
And  find  the  little  cobweb  tents 
The  fairies  sleep  in  all  the  night  ? 
But,  alas,  you  '11  find  no  traces 
Of  their  little  fairy  faces  ! 


120  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


IF  I  were  a  little  pink  shell  by  the  sea 
How  happy  and  cool  and  contented  I  'd  be ! 
In  the  pretty  white  sand  I  would  nestle  and 

lie 

And  play  with  the  frolicsome  waves  going  by ; 
They  would  whisper  ine  secrets  of  things  in  the 

deep, 

And  forever  those   secrets   I'd    treasure  and 
keep. 


Pee -Wee.  121 


PEE -WEE. 

NAY,  little  pee -wee,  be  not  sad; 
Why  art  thou  plaintive  upon  the  bough  ? 
Summer  is  here  and  skies  are  glad 
And  only  I  am  sorrowful ;  thou  — 

What  hast  thou  had  to  do  with  grief, 
What  is  the  ache  in  thy  tiny  breast, 
That  there  thou  mournest  within  the  leaf, 
Sad  at  the  door  of  thy  own  sweet  nest  ? 

Poor  little  pee-wee,  art  thou  too 
Hurt  with  the  weight  of  the  sad  world's  woe, 
Pained  with  pity  beneath  the  blue 
For  the  strange  earth  sorrows  thou  dost  not 
know? 

I  may  not  fathom  thy  soft  lament, 
Nor  search  the  pain  in  thy  pure-drawn  note, 
But  my  own  dim  trouble  with  thine  is  blent, 
And  utters  itself  from  thy  sweet  throat. 


122  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


MY  NEIGHBOR'S  LINDEN. 

CITY  yards  are  n't  big  enough 
To  hold  a  spreading  tree, 
And  so  my  neighbor's  Linden 
Gives  shade  enough  for  me. 

Its  branches  touch  my  windows, 
It  cools  my  house  with  green, 
It  casts  me  waving  shadows 
With  sunlight  flashed  between. 

Some  can  follow  summer 
Through  woods  and  over  lea, 
'T  is  sweet  to  me  to  find  her 
Beneath  my  neighbor's  tree. 


Pussy-  Willows.  1 23 


PUSSY-WILLOWS. 

PUSSY-WILLOWS  shyly  peeping, 
Gaining  courage,  slyly  creeping, 
From  their  little  coats  looked  out 
To  find  what  Nature  was  about. 

Pussy-willows,  getting  bolder, 
Growing  strong  as  they  grew  older, 
Threw  their  old  black  coats  away, 
Showed  soft,  fuzzy  robes  of  gray. 

Pussy-willows,  nodding  brightly 
As  the  breezes  brushed  them  lightly, 
Played  at  hide-and-seek  all  day 
With  the  sunbeams  warm  and  gay. 

Pussy-willows,  cloudy  hours, 
Revelled  in  the  April  showers, 
Listened  to  the  robins'  call, 
Watched  the  sunshine  sift  and  fall. 

Pussy-willows,  gold-dust  laden, 
Caught  the  eye  of  passing  maiden ; 
Ah,  did  April  weep  that  day 
For  her  booty  borne  away  ? 


124  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


PARTRIDGE-VINE. 

THERE  dwells  within  the  forest, 
Upon  the  lowly  ground, 
As  dear  a  little  creeper 
As  ye  have  ever  found. 

It  shelters  early  blossoms, 
As  delicate  and  fair, 
As  arbutus,  sweet  neighbor, 
That  likewise  nesteth  there. 

When  others  go  in  hiding, 
This  sturdy  little  vine 
Makes  brave  with  scarlet  berries, 
And  winters  with  the  pine. 

O  trusty  little  comrade 
Of  humble  and  of  great, 
What  cheeriness  and  courage 
Adorn  thy  low  estate ! 


Jasmine.  125 


JASMINE. 

JASMINE  tangles  in  the  wildwood, 
Jasmine  glimpsing  in  the  sun, 
Careless  as  the  joy  of  childhood, 
Sweet  as  dreams  of  love  begun. 

Vines  of  jasmine,  creeping,  clinging, 
Climbing  here  and  drooping  there ; 
Bells  of  jasmine  —  swaying,  swinging, 
Spilling  fragrance  on  the  air. 

Careless  as  the  joy  of  childhood, 
Sweet  as  dreams  of  love  begun, 
Jasmine  tangles  in  the  wildwood, 
Jasmine  blossoms  in  the  sun. 


1 26  Child  Poems  and  Songs. 


WILD  ROSE. 

A  KING  might  sue  thee,  peasant  flower, 
To  grace  his  palace  gardens  rare, 
But  thou  would'st  rue  thee,  every  hour, 
Should  he  thy  beauty  captive  bear. 

It  is  to  thee  a  fairer  boon 
More  lowly  ways  than  his  to  bless ; 
Along  the  free  wild  roads  of  June 
To  loiter  in  thy  loveliness  ! 


Clover.  127 


CLOVER. 

A 3  but  clover,  common  clover, 
Growing  as  it  used  to  grow 
When  the  buttercups  beside  me 
Were  as  tall  as  I,  you  know ! 

When  I  roamed  from  morn  till  sundown, 
Child  upon  the  summer-side, 
Brushed  my  way  among  the  grasses, 
Met  the  daisies  level-eyed  — 

Nothing  was  there  quite  like  clover, 
Nothing  is  there  that  to-day 
Makes  my  heart  so  beat  with  gladness 
In  the  blithe  old  careless  way. 

Simple  ecstasy  of  being, 
Simple  pleasure  in  the  sun, 
Clover,  I  have  not  forgotten, 
Nor  with  childhood  have  I  done  ! 


of 
anD  otljer 


THE  PLACE  OF  MY  DESIRE. 

HERE  have  I  found  the  place  of  my  desire  ; 
Here  life  does  seem  a  gentle  pastoral, 
Where  simple  things  in  loveliness  conspire, 
And  peace  and  quietness  from  Heaven  fall 
Like  morning  light.     Here  is  no  great  or  small, 
But  all  things  minister  to  my  content, 
And  1  am  happy  just  to  hear  the  call, 
"  Co'boss,  co'boss,"  along  the  pasture  sent, 
With  its  own  faint  prolonging  echoes  borne  and 
blent. 


Here  little  cottages  are  nestled  low 

In  comfortable  valley-lands.     Behind, 

The  bending  sky  down-stoops  to  kiss  the  brow 

Of  sunlit  uplands.     Ah,  and  were  I  blind 

Still  I  some  share  of  friendliness  would  find, 

Still  would  I  know  that  by  each  cottage  door 

A  darling  brook  light-heartedly  did  wind 

To  the  great  sea,  that  murmurs  from  the  shore 

And  with  its  unspent  yearning  calls  forevermore ! 


132  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire." 

Here  am  I  moved  of  many  things  to  tell 

That  fill  the  quietness  of  my  own  heart ; 

Of  ferns  and  mosses  growing  down  a  well 

All  dripping  cool ;  of  little  roads  apart 

From  beaten  ways,  where  timid  shadows  start, 

With  hint  of  sweet  seclusion  just  beyond  ; 

Of  tiny  creatures  that  so  softly  dart 

They  scarcely  shake  the  dew  from  leaf  or  frond ; 

Of  silence  brooding  over  an  unrippled  pond  ; 

Of  cattle  grazing  on  the  quiet  fields 
In  peaceful  groups,  through  undisturbed  days ; 
Of  harvest-lands  rich-laden  with  their  yields, 
And  russet  fallows  wrapped  in  autumn  haze  ; 
Of  corn-shock  rustling  in  each  wind  that  strays ; 
Of  little  homes,  that  have  no  fear  of  harm  ; 
Of  lowly  folk,  that  follow  lowly  ways 
And  make  each  dear  companionable  farm 
A  hearth-side  centre  of  security  and  calm. 

And  of  the  sea  —  the  solitary  sea, 
That  beats  with  its  old  burden  up  the  shore, 
And  then  falls  back  again,  half  wearily, 
As  if  its  uttermost  could  do  no  more,  — 
The  sea,  the  mighty,  that  on  its  deep  floor 
So  tenderly  doth  guard  the  frailest  shell 
And  brings  it  up  from  that  abounding  store 


The  Place  of  My  Desire.  133 

Of  unspoiled  wealth  so  cautiously  and  well 
It  lies  unbroken  on  the  beach,  with  the  dim 
spell 

Of  the  unseen  upon  it,  and  the  sound 
Of  ocean  whisperings  within  it  still. 
Oft  have  I  put  my  ear  unto  the  ground 
To  catch  the  prisoned  murmur  that  doth  fill 
My  soul  with  a  vague  wistfulness,  until 
The  strangeness  of  it  grows  a  very  pain. 
But  this — this  fragile  shell — was  born  to  thrill 
To  the  great  ocean's  heart  and  still  is  fain 
To  whisper  wonders  of  the  deeps  where  it  has 
lain. 

Here  have  I  found  the  place  of  my  desire ; 

Here  life  is  lovely  as  an  antique  lay, 

And  kindles  in  my  breast  the  sacred  fire 

Of  poesy,  till  even  I,  to-day, 

The  muse's  sweet  behest  must  needs  obey, 

And  in  old  linked  metre  try  to  trace 

Some  loveliness  —  to  catch,  if  so  I  may, 

The  over-welling  beauty  of  this  place, 

And  in  a  brimming  measure  hold  it  for  a  space. 

PARADISE  KOAD, 
NEWPORT. 


1 34          "  The  Place  of  My  Desire" 


SUNSET  AT  WINNEPESAUKEE. 

I. 

LAKE  of  pure  waters,  met  with  quiet  sky 
Amid  the  sunset  hills  of  amethyst, 
Ye  speak  in  silences,  as  lovers  list, 
And  each  new  stillness  passes  like  a  sigh 
That  for  some  unnamed  grief  doth  wake  and  die, 
Or  for   some  dreamed-of  joy  that  hath  been 

missed. 

What  untraced  sadness  is  there  in  this  tryst, 
Or  am  I  sad  that  soon  will  darkness  lie 
Upon  the  trysting-spot  ?     Most  gentle  night, 
Steal  tenderly  to  this  dear  lake,  nor  yet 
Disturb  the  soft  caresses  of  the  light. 
Still  tarry  down  the  east,  and  longer  let 
The  shadows  play  athwart  the  hills,  that  now 
Grow  slumberous ;  and  night-wind,  loiter  thou ! 


Sunset  at  Winnepesaukee.  135 


II. 

0  Lake  of  opal,  set  with  opal  sky 
Within  encircling  hills  of  amethyst, 
The  tints  upon  thee  mingle  as  they  list, 
And  each  new  blending  is  so  fair  that  I 
Could  weep  with  wondering  as  it  goes  by. 
A  fire-opal  that  the  sun  hath  kissed, 
Thy  colors  gleam  as  through  a  sudden  mist 
Of  wistful  unshed  tears  that  quivering  lie ! 
Such  beauty  hauntingly  doth  fill  the  heart, 
As  doth  remembered  gladness  fill  the  night ; 
And  as  a  lover  evermore  doth  bear 
The  image  of  one  face  most  gentle  fair, 
So  shall  I  carry  thy  bewildering  light 
Through  unillumined  ways  and  crowded  mart. 


136  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire" 


III. 

I  think  upon  the  old  ^Egean  sea 

Such  colors  lay,  when  to  the  lonely  sight 

Of  one  outlooking  far  from  Patmos'  height, 

There  fell  a  vision  of  the  things  to  be, 

And  he  beheld  a  city  daringly, 

Of  gold  like  glass,  with  rivers  running  white, 

And  jasper  walls  upbuilt  on  chrysolite 

And  jacinth,  topaz,  and  chalcedony. 

Ah,  did  not  John  behold  with  westward  eyes 

The  laying  of  those  pure  foundation  stones 

Along  the  evening's  ramparts,  one  by  one ; 

And  as  he  watched  the  jasper  walls  uprise, 

See  suddenly  the  four-and-twenty  thrones 

Within  a  city  needing  not  the  sun  ? 


Poem.  137 


THE  brave  west  winds  come  sweeping  down 
the  Broads, 

The  silver  lights  across  the  waters  run, 
And   glance   and   burn   like  gleaming-bladed 

swords 

Outflashing  from  their  scabbards  in  the  sun. 
Great  purple  shadows  pass  athwart  the  hills 
And  out  into  the  open,  swift  away ! 
Old  prophecies  awake,  and  strange  wild  thrills 
Do  course  within  the  bosom  of  the  day. 
Oh,  for  the  speed  of  some  white-winged  boat, 
That  I  might  sail  thy  silver  waters  o'er, 
And  chase  wind-driven  shadows  far  afloat, 
And  follow  to  some  dim  retreating  shore  ! 
Oh,  that  I  might  old  ecstasies  new  find, 
And  drink  deep  draughts  of  thy  life-giving  wind ! 


138  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire." 


TO  WINNEPESAUKEE. 

LAKE  of  changeful  Avater, 
And  purple-shadowed  hills, 

Thy  passionate  wild  beauty 

My  inward  vision  fills  ! 

As  unforgotten  music 
Awakes  within  the  heart, 
Thy  loveliness  uprises, 
To  make  my  sorrow  start, 

And  I  cry  out  in  longing, 
Thy  shores  again  to  seek, 
And  feel  for  one  fresh  moment 
Thy  winds  upon  my  cheek. 

O  gentle-bordered  river, 
Would  I  could  comfort  take, 
And  by  thy  quiet  windings 
Forget  my  stormy  lake  ! 

BY  THE  CONNECTICUT. 


Indian  Summer.  139 


O  REMINISCENT  days 
That  touch  the  heart  to  tenderness, 
0  sad  and  tranquil  ways, 
By  waters  rapt  and  motionless, 
What  silences  are  yours !    No  more 
The  little  waves  lap  lovingly,  that  lately  took 
The  rhythm  of  the  wind. 
The  shadows  in  the  quiet  bays 
Sleep    undisturbed,    and   all    the   woods   are 

dumb ; 

More  soft  than  falling  sunbeams  come 
The  fair  down-faltering  leaves, 
And  autumn  pauses  ere  she  stoops  to  bind 
Her  golden  sheaves. 

The  waiting  winds  of  Heaven  will  not  stir, 
Lest  they  shall  roughly  waken  her  — 
Sweet  summer,  who  has  stolen  back  for  one 

last  look, 
And  sits  day  dreaming  by  the  shore. 

BY  LAKE  WINNEPESAUKEE. 


1 40  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire" 


SURPRISAL. 

T  JOURNEYED  south,  and  came  upon  the 

A         spring, 

Sweet  loiterer  by  the  way, 

Dear  child  of  unconcern.     Oh,  wondrous  thing, 

So  to  surprise  her  at  her  play, 

With  all  her  wreaths  of  green  begun, 

And  lap  heaped  full  of  blossoms  gay, 

There  holding  joyful  May-day  in  the  sun  ! 


Poem.  141 


IF  my  strength  go  from  me 
Take  me  to  my  South, 
Where  the  salt  tides  enter 
At  the  river's  mouth  ; 

Where  across  the  marshes, 
Cloudy  shadows  pass, 
Sail-boats  slip  and  wander 
Through  the  channelled  grass  ; 

Where  the  jasmine  tangles 
Overrun  the  spring, 
Mocking-birds  in  madness 
Sing  and  sing  and  sing. 

Let  one  friend  go  with  me, 
Northern  born,  as  I, 
That  I  be  not  lonely, 
Underneath  that  sky. 

There  will  I  acquaint  her 
With  each  southern  thing, 
Violets  and  roses, 
Vines  and  blossoming. 


142  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire." 

There  into  that  sunshine 
Shall  we  two  go  forth, 
Loving  yet  the  snow  storms, 
Of  our  own  dear  North  ! 

SAVANNAH. 


Poem.  143 


VIOLETS  and  sunshine  and  vague  thrills 
That  steal  along  the  pulses  of  the  air, 
Japonicas  and  roses  and  the  trills 
Of  little  birds  a-flutter  everywhere  ! 
Here  in  the  sunny  southland  I  am  set 
Amid  the  blossoms  and  the  warm,  sweet  things ; 
Green  trees  above  my  head  are  shower-wet 
And  all  the  air  hath  hint  of  olden  springs ; 
But,  oh,  to  be  again  in  my  own  laud, 
To  look  again  upon  my  snowy  hills, 
To  feel  the  clasp  of  a  familiar  hand, 
And  share  again  the  fireside  glow  that  fills 
With  warmth  and  cheeriness  my  little  home 
Amid  the  mountains  whence  the  great  winds 
come! 

SAVANNAH. 


1 44  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire." 


IN  THE  ROCKIES. 

T   AM  a  lover  of  New  England  ways, 

-••  Of  country  roadsides  and  familiar  flowers, 

Of  haunts  that  I  have  known  from  early  days, 

And  followed  far  through  long  and  happy  hours. 

How  may  I  look  on  the  gigantic  West  ? 

How  understand  these  mountains  and  ravines  ? 

How  cease  from  saying,  But  my  heart  loves 

best 

The  quiet  East  and  all  its  wooded  scenes  ? 
These  are  the  mighty  ones  that  I  know  not 
Of  ancient  race  and  kingly  lineage  — 
Too  great  for  me,  still  holding  unforgot 
The  lesser  hillsides  of  my  heritage, 
Like  one  of  lowly  birth  who  homesick  clings 
To  humble  memories  'mid  halls  of  kings. 


Night  on  the  Desert.  145 


NIGHT  ON  THE  DESERT. 

OILENCE  hath  sound,  and  darkness  hath  a 
^  tongue 

In  all  God's  lauds  but  this,  where  no  sounds  be. 
There  is  a  whisper  in  each  slumberous  tree 
When  every  little  bird  his  song  hath  sung ; 
A  myriad  murmurs,  when  the  stars  are  hung, 
Uprise  from  wood  and  riverside  and  lea, 
And  all  the  dwellers  by  the  ancient  sea 
Hear  through  the   dark  the  eternal   breakers 

flung. 

But  here  upon  the  desert  is  no  voice, 
No  speech,  no  language,  but  the  emptiness 
Of  the  primeval  void.     No  hills  rejoice, 
No  quenchless  streams  and  rivers  leap  to  bless. 
On  these  still  sands,  alone  with  outer  space, 
The  starlit  night  is  awful  as  God's  face. 

COLORADO  SPRINGS. 

10 


1 46  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire" 


HOMESICKNESS. 

WHERE  can  I  wander,  where  upon  the 
plain, 

Who  find  not  that  for  which  my  heart  is  fain, 
Not   one  sweet  meadow   where   the   violets 

wake, 

Nor  any  woodland  bordering  a  lake  ? 
Where  shall  I  search  upon  the  mountain  side, 
Who  cannot  find  the  darlings  of  my  pride  — 
The  first  arbutus,  hid  beneath  the  snow, 
The   star-sown   wind-flowers   that  I  used  to 

know, 

The  winter-green,  the  little  partridge-vine 
Bright-berried  yearly  underneath  the  pine  ? 
Where  shall  I  turn,  who  can  no  longer  see 
The  far  blue  hills  familiar  unto  me, 
The  hills  of  summer  and  the  hills  of  snow 
Where  great  winds  drive  and  driven  clouds 

sweep  low. 
Too  long  my  steps  were  taught  New  England 

ways, 
Too  long  my  eyes  looked  out  upon  those  days 


Homesickness.  147 


To  find    their    comfort    here.     Here   sorrow 

dwells, 

And  the  wide  future  opens,  dim  and  vast ; 
But  there  forever  lie  the  olden  spells, 
The  balm  of  childhood  and  my  hill-bound  past ! 

COLOBADO  SPRINGS. 


1 48  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire" 


SAILOR  BLOOD. 

I  COME  of  a  race  that  loves  the  sea 
And  a  driven  ship  is  home  to  me. 
On  laud  I  faint  and  thirst  and  fail 
And  grow  heart-sick  for  the  roaring  gale ; 
I  dream  of  a  home  that  hath  no  place, 
And  the  feel  of  the  spray  upon  my  face. 

The  mountains  rise  to  a  barren  sky, 
And  the  level  plains  are  parched  and  dry ; 
Like  a  stagnant  sea  they  mock  my  gaze 
With  their  limitless  horizon  haze ; 
They  have  no  breath,  they  mock  at  me, 
Whose  soul  cries  out  for  the  living  sea. 

I   am   scourged  of  the  dust  that  sweeps  the 

plains, 

And  the  great  dry  winds  that  bring  no  rains ; 
I  am  scourged  of  the  dust,  I  am  choked  and 

blind, 

And  the  health  of  waters  I  cannot  find, 
And  my  sailor  blood  makes  wild  in  me 
For  the  wet  of  the  storm,  and  the  salt  of  the 

seal 


Sailor  Blood.  149 


Child  of  the  sea,  how  can  I  bear 

The  wide  still  plains  and  the  desert  air  ? 

Sounds  of  the  sea  I  hear  by  night 

In  dreams  that  have  not  sound  nor  sight, 

And  my  heart  doth  yearn  and  strain  by  day 

For  the  throb  two  thousand  miles  away. 

Doth  strain  and  hark  for  the  distant  roar 
Of  great  tides  booming  along  the  shore ; 
Like  a  prisoned  gull  my  heart  doth  beat 
For  the  great  wet  winds  and  the  dripping  sheet, 
And  the  crested  waves  and  the  bounding  spray, 
And  the  storms  that  brood  o'er  the  ocean  gray. 

I  come  of  a  race  that  loves  the  sea 
And  a  driven  ship  is  home  to  me. 
On  land  I  faint  and  thirst  and  fail 
And  grow  heart-sick  for  the  roaring  gale ; 
I  dream  of  a  home  that  hath  no  place, 
And  the  feel  of  the  spray  upon  my  face  ! 


150  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire" 


IN  a  far  land  of  sunshine, 
I  dreamed  the  sound  of  rain, 
And  in  my  far-off  garden  beds 
I  heard  it  fall  again. 

In  a  far  land  of  sunshine, 
I  dreamed  the  smell  of  flowers, 
My  mignonette  and  heliotrope 
New-freshened  by  the  showers. 

In  a  far  land  of  sunshine, 

I  waked  unto  the  light, 

And  wept  to  lose  the  sound  of  rain 

That  comforted  my  night. 


Poem.  151 


T  SEE    these  mountains   now  forever  with 

•*•        changed  eyes, 

Since   I  have  seen  them  lovely  through  the 

summer  storms, 
And  heard  their  thunders  roll,  —  their  ceaseless 

thunders  roll. 

No  more  I  call  them  barren,  that  so  rise 
Unto  the  rains  of  heaven.     No  more  my  soul 
Doth  yearn  unsatisfied  in  a  far  land,  since  it  hath 

seen 

Hill  bare  and  prairies  over-crept  with  green. 
Yea,  even  here  I  feel  the  distant  sea 
Pour  out  itself  in  rains  to  comfort  me. 

COLORADO  SPRINGS. 


152  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire." 


MOTHER  EARTH. 

A  STRANGER  and  an  exile  felt  I  here, 
So  unacquaint  with  mountain  and  with 

plain, 

So  far  removed  from  haunts  that  I  hold  dear, 
My  sea-girt  lowlands  and  my  hills  of  rain. 
A  stranger  and  an  exile  wandered  I 
With  eyes  that  sought  beyond  the  prairie's  edge, 
With  homesick  heart  beneath  an  alien  sky, 
Foot-sore  and  faint  for  one  familiar  ledge  — 
Until  I  flung  me  down  upon  the  ground, 
Far  in  the  canon's  hollow,  with  shut  eyes, 
And  hearkened  to  the  running  water's  sound 
And  felt  the  warm  earth-contact,  and  grew  wise. 
O  Mother  Earth,  here  too,  in  canon  wild, 
Or  on  brown  prairie,  am  I  still  thy  child  ! 

COLORADO  SPRINGS. 


Body  and  Spirit.  153 


BODY  AND  SPIRIT. 

THEN  lie  thou  here,  thou  body  of  mine, 
If  so  thou  must. 
My  spirit  thou  canst  not  confine 
In  thy  poor  dust. 
It  wanders  at  will 

Over  the  woodland  and  over  the  hill, 
On  and  on  to  the  windy  shore, 
On  and  out  to  the  open  sea. 
It  flies  like  a  bird  and  circles  free 
O'er  all  the  spots  where  it  loves  to  be. 
O'er  all  that  it  loved  of  yore 
When  thou,  poor  body,  wast  comrade  true, 
Lusty  and  strong  to  dare  and  do ; 
Strong  to  climb  to  the  topmost  peak 
Of  the  craggy  mountain,  grim  and  bare, 
To  lift  the  chin  and  hold  the  cheek 
'Gainst  the  mighty  winds  of  the  upper  air, 
To  battle  the  storm  with  stalwart  breast, 
To  ride  in  glee  on  the  wild  wave's  crest, 
With  gripping  hand  and  steady  wrist 
To  hold  the  tiller  and  straining  sheet 
On  the  stormy  lake  where  the  squall- winds  meet. 


154  "  The  Place  of  My  Desire" 

Now  lie  thou  here,  thou  body  of  mine, 

If  so  thou  must. 

I  '11  not  forget,  good  friend  thou  wast 

In  those  old  days  of  sky  and  pine 

When  body  and  soul  were  mated  true, 

Under  the  storm-clouds,  under  the  blue ! 

With  memories  there,  need  I  repine  ? 

In  this  poor  dust 

The  spirit  still 

Can  wander  at  will 

To  all  the  spots  where  it  loves  to  be ; 

Over  the  woodland,  over  the  hill, 

On  and  out  to  the  open  sea ! 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000684133     2 


